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REESE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Deceived  ,190    . 

Accession  No.     92754      .   < 


, 


, 


WAYFARERS 
IN    ITALY 

tf 

by   KATHARINE    HOOKER 


D.  P.  ELDER  AND  MORGAN  SHEPARD 

San       Francisco 

1902 


Ctfjright^  1901 

h 

KATHARINE  HOOKER 


To  J.  D.  H. 

FOR    WHOM    ALL    WAS    WRITTEN 


92751 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
On  the  Lombard  Plain      -------  3 

Milan,  Bergamo,  Brescia,  Mantua,  Ferrara. 

Sojourning  in  Florence  -  36 

Florence. 

Driving  through  Tuscany  -  -          -  64 

Monte  Oliveto,  San  Quirico,  Pienza,  Montepulciano,  Cortona, 
Arezzo,  Borgo  San  Sepolcro. 

April  in  the  Marches  -  -  88 

Jesi,  Loreto,   Recanati,   Macerata,  Ascoli,  San  Benedetto  del 
Tronto. 

•  In  the  Abruzzi       -  1 1 6 

Solmona,  Scanno,  Avezzano. 

Roman  Excursions  -          -          -          -          -141 

Anagni,  Bracciano,  Viterbo. 

Monte  Cassino  and  Ravelk  -  -  162 

The  Heart  of  Vmbria  -  -         -     184 

Narni,  Assisi,  Perugia,  Trasimeno. 

Across  the  Apennines  -          -  -          211 

Gubbio,  Urbino. 

The  Shore  of  the  Adriatic     -         -         -          -          -          -          -226 

Rimini,  San  Leo,  Ravenna. 

Siena  and  the  Palio          -  -          -          -          -          -          242 

Siena. 

Tower*  d  Cities  -  -  --  -257 

San  Gimignano,  Volterra,  Lucca. 

Venice  -  .  279 


"  Dost  know  the  tombs  of  Castel  d'Asso  ?  The  towers  of  San 
Gimignano?  The  outlooks  from  Montepulciano  ?  The  palaces  of 
Pienza?  The  cloisters  of  Oliveto  Maggiore?  Hast  ever  penetrated 
"  the  obscure  renown  of  the  Fanum  Voltumnas, —  or  followed  the  fading 
frescoes  of  the  Grotta  del  Trinclinio, —  or  studied  the  lengthening 
shadows  of  the  Val  di  Chiana, —  or  boated  it  across  to  the  lonely 
isles  of  the  Lago  Trasimeno?" 

HENRY  B.  FULLER.      The  Chevalier  of  Pemieri-Vani. 


ON  THE  LOMBARD  PLAIN 

"  O  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon M  fires, 
The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory ! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires ! 

"I  climb* d  the  roof  at  break  of  day; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 
I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they." 

TENNYSON.      The  Daisy. 

Y  THE  first  of  March  spring  was 
in  full  possession  of  the  Riviera. 
At  Hyeres  and  Mentone  the  days 
were  warm  and  mild  and  daffodils 
were  showing  their  delicate  faces. 
Climbing  the  mountain  paths, 
lounging  upon  the  grass  under 
venerable  olive  trees  we  forgot  that 
there  could  be  frost  and  cold  not  far 
away;  and  when  we  crossed  the  boundary  of  Italy  and 
made  our  way  toward  Milan  it  was  a  shock  to  meet 
winter  again,  among  deep  snow  and  leafless  trees.  We 
gazed  from  the  car  windows  a  little  forlornly ;  it  seemed 
but  a  chilly  greeting  from  the  land  of  our  love.  But 
the  feeling  lasted  only  a  moment;  the  sun  came  out 
presently  and  lighted  the  landscape  till  it  shone  and 


4  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

sparkled,  and  before  darkness  shut  down  we  were  again 
in  warmer  regions. 

It  is  a  question  by  which  gate  one  should  enter  Italy. 
Whether  to  sail  into  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  ^  yield 
oneself  up  at  once  to  the  fulness  of  her  charms  amid  the 
richness  and  foreignness  of  the  South,  or  to  begin  in  the 
North,  and  let  her  unfold  them  by  slow  degrees  as  one 
advances.  To  succumb  in  the  beginning  need  not  be  to 
risk  disillusion  later,  for  she  is  dear  and  beautiful  in  any 
phase,  but  some  may  enjoy  the  completeness  of  a  sur- 
render at  the  first,  while  others  prefer  the  coquetry  of 
being  wooed  and  won  more  gradually,  thus  husbanding 
their  sensations,  so  to  speak.  Age  and  temperament 
will  have  to  do  with  the  choice,  but,  fortunately,  either 
way  there  need,  in  the  end,  be  no  regret. 

To  begin  with  Milan  is  to  start  soberly.  If  one 
be  carping  one  is  inclined  to  find  it  too  modern,  too 
prosperous,  and  to  be  disappointed  that  most  of  the 
ancient  buildings  have  been  swept  away,  and  that  the 
elaborate  stone  carving  in  the  ceiling  of  the  cathedral  is 
only  brown  paper.  But  this  is  unreasonable.  We  can 
not  expect  Italy  not  to  experiment  in  commercial  prog- 
ress with  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  the  brown  paper 
merely  indicates  magnificent  intentions  for  future  fulfil- 
ment. Are  there  not  two  thousand  marble  statues  on 
the  exterior  of  the  edifice  now,  with  Napoleon  among 
them,  by  the  way,  in  classic  drapery,  to  show  what  has 
already  been  accomplished? 

We  took  advantage  of  the  early  morning,  which 
was  crystal  clear,  to  climb  the  four  hundred  and  ninety- 
four  steps  that  lead  to  the  roof,  and  there  to  look  down 
upon  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  spread  out  before  us, 
or  so  it  seemed.  Towering  against  the  heavens  rose  the 
noblest  peaks  of  the  Alps,  Mont  Blanc,  Monte  Rosa, 
the  Matterhorn,  with  all  their  lesser  brethren.  Eternal, 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  5 

immovable,  in  their  spotless  purity  of  whiteness,  they 
leaned  back  against  the  illimitable  blue,  looking  down 
indifferently  upon  the  turmoil  of  the  world  below. 
Farther  away  the  Apennines  loomed  dimly,  and  great 
plains  unrolled  themselves  to  the  horizon,  while  the 
cities  of  the  world  were  represented  nearest  us  by  the 
domes  and  pinnacles  of  Pavia. 

A  time  never  comes  when  the  eye  and  mind  are 
weary  of  these  things,  and  yet  they  must  be  abandoned 
and  the  traveler  return  to  earth.  On  the  way  down  one 
may  purchase  if  one  pleases  a  little  silver  medal,  at  a 
modest  price,  from  an  old  man  who  lives  upon  the  roof, 
and  yet  who  shows  none  of  that  indifference  and  de- 
tachment that  such  intimate  association  with  cold  statues 
and  frozen  peaks  might  engender.  On  the  contrary  he 
chats  sociably  and  lauds  the  artless  design  on  the  medal, 
where  the  complete  fa9ade  of  the  duomo  is  attempted  in 
the  space  of  a  third  of  an  inch. 

Below,  as  one  emerges  upon  the  great  busy  piazza, 
one  is  conscious  of  being  in  one  of  the  largest  centres 
of  the  Italian  life  of  to-day,  and  the  grandiose  Galleria 
Vittorio  Emanuele,  with  its  big  colonnades  and  glittering 
arcades,  is  amusing  enough  for  a  time.  Threading  the 
arcade,  it  is  possible  to  cut  off  part  of  the  distance  to  the 
quarter  where  the  principal  hotels  lie  by  passing  through 
a  by-street  where  there  is  a  very  attractive  little  fruit 
shop.  We  noted  it,  and  stopped  to  make  purchases. 
Various  tempting  fruits  of  the  early  spring  were  offered 
for  sale,  with  every  advantage  of  arrangement  and  con- 
trast. We  admired  and  hesitated  in  our  selection,  and  a 
sweet-faced  young  woman  who  was  minding  the  shop 
came  forward  to  assist  us.  With  the  first  words  that 
she  uttered,  all  interest  in  her  wares  departed;  her  man- 
ner was  full  of  blithe  courtesy,  but  her  voice  it  was  that 
chained  the  attention.  It  was  one  of  the  sweetest  I  ever 


6  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

heard;  its  every  cadence  pure  music.  To^make  her  talk 
was  the  instant  impulse,  and  fortunately  it  is  seldom  hard 
to  accomplish  that  with  an  Italian  girl.  She  cordially 
met  every  subject  in  the  limited  range  we  could  call  up, 
and  the  more  she  talked  the  more  captivated  we  became. 
She  smiled,  she  chatted,  and  showed  no  self-conscious- 
ness, while  the  melodious  voice  rippled  out  with  a  variety 
of  intonation  and  range  that  repeatedly  surprised  us.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  while  we  stayed  in  Milan  we  found 
fruit  a  daily  necessity  and  in  the  end  might  almost  have 
called  ourselves  personal  friends  of  this  enticing  daughter 
of  the  people. 

Whatever  may  be  the  faults  of  the  lower  class  of 
Italians,  as  one  sees  it  in  Italy,  it  is  as  distinctly  aristo- 
cratic as  the  corresponding  orders  in  certain  other  nations 
are  vulgar.  There  is  an  unembarrassed  manner,  a  self- 
respect,  a  cheerful  courtesy,  and  a  pleasant  sort  of  confid- 
ingness  that  seldom  fail,  and  it  all  helps  to  give  intercourse 
with  them  an  ease  and  charm  that  renders  traveling  twice 
as  agreeable  and  sows  it  with  encounters  and  incidents, 
trifling  enough  in  themselves,  but  which  color  and  warm 
the  retrospect. 

But  besides  loitering  in  fruit-shops  there  is  much  to 
do  in  Milan.  The  splendid  picture-gallery,  with  its  fine 
arrangement  and  admirable  care  in  attributions,  offers 
opportunity  for  endless  pleasure  and  study;  and  indeed 
the  city  is  rich  in  pictures  and  frescoes,  scattered  through 
various  collections  and  churches.  The  little  Museo 
Poldi-Pezzoli,  for  example,  is  a  treasure-house  of  desir- 
able things. 

The  Cavaliere  Poldi-Pezzoli,  who  died  some  twenty 
years  ago,  bequeathed  his  palazzo,  filled  with  the  costly 
collections  he  had  made,  to  the  city,  and  it  is  now  kept 
open  to  the  public  certain  hours  in  the  day.  It  stands 
in  a  narrow  street  which  hardly  yields  width  enough  to 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  7 

throw  back  the  head  for  a  scrutiny  of  its  unpretentious 
fa$ade,  and  when  one  has  entered,  it  gives  a  pleasing  sense 
of  nearness  and  personality,  due  to  its  compact  propor- 
tions and  tasteful  arrangement.  One  is  conscious  of  sub- 
dued color  in  some  old  tapestries  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  passes  by  a  mildly  gurgling  little  fountain  to  mount 
the  stairs  to  the  principal  apartments.  Here  are  wondrous 
things.  Armor,  antique  glass  and  porcelain,  bronze  and 
enamel  are  to  be  seen,  and  not  in  the  fatiguing  and  end- 
less variety  of  a  national  museum  but  in  a  few  rare  and 
exquisite  examples.  There  are  reliquaries  luminous  with 
color  and  jewels  of  intricate  design,  set  with  precious 
stones  at  whose  names  one  must  guess  and  which  start 
the  vagrant  fancy  upon  excursions  into  the  romance  of 
the  past.  Everything  is  rich  and  quiet;  nothing  garish 
or  insistent.  But  the  palazzo  itself  is  not  antique,  and 
it  is  interesting  to  examine  the  details  of  its  construction 
and  furnishing  in  the  taste  of  the  Cavaliere's  day,  and  to 
see  the  jewel-box  which  he  has  contrived  to  make  of  it. 

The  sala  nera  is  lined  with  ebony,  the  panels  out- 
lined with  delicate  patterns  in  ivory,  and  inlaid  ivory  also 
forms  the  decoration  of  the  ebony  chairs,  with  their  cush- 
ions of  pale  green  embroidered  satin.  The  walls  of  a 
bedchamber  are  a  mass  of  high  relief  carving  in  a  deep 
brown,  dull-finished  wood,  the  frames  of  doors  and  win- 
dows coming  into  especially  ornamented  prominence. 
The  floor  of  this  room  is  a  wood  mosaic,  but  the  most 
imposing  object  is  the  bed.  Raised  upon  a  dais,  and 
with  a  carved  canopy  of  wonderful  design  and  workman- 
ship, it  is  supported  by  four  demons  of  terrible  aspect, 
and  one  is  left  in  doubt  as  to  whether,  if  the  dark  hours 
were  ever  wakeful,  the  thought  of  their  presence  would 
bring  more  of  a  sense  of  shrinking  or  protection. 

But  choicest  of  all  is  a  tiny  salon  adjoining  the  bed- 
room, and  which  appears  to  be  a  breakfast-room.  Here 


8  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

ingenuity  has  done  its  utmost.  The  ceiling  is  a  diaper 
pattern  of  dull  gold  with  suggestions  of  warm  color. 
More  gorgeous  are  the  walls  below,  and  over  the  mantel 
is  a  gold  grill  set  with  enamel  and  precious  stones,  and 
guarded  by  golden  dragons  with  jeweled  eyes.  A  cabi- 
net in  the  wall,  with  door  of  solid  crystal,  has  its  lock 
and  strap-hinges  of  gold  bronze  set  with  coral,  and  its 
inner  drawers  covered  with  patterns  in  etched  mother-of- 
pearl,  while  two  cupboards,  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace, 
hold  a  few  examples  of  precious  porcelain.  In  all  these 
rooms  the  imagination  must  supply  the  presence  of 
antique  rugs,  tapestries,  and  gold  brocades,  which  are 
unstinted. 

There  is  a  certain  artfulness  in  the  way  in  which 
windows  are  disposed.  One  is  not  tempted  toward  those 
commanding  the  stony  street;  for  there  are  those  that 
look  out  upon  a  sweet  garden  that  holds  the  shade  of 
tall  trees,  and,  though  small  like  all  the  rest,  is  so  effectu- 
ally protected  as  to  make  its  green  pathways  quite  se- 
cluded. 

But  best  of  all  in  this  little  palazzo  are  the  pictures, — 
treasures  such  as  only  wealth  and  discrimination  can 
bring  together, —  and  they  call  one  back  again  and  again, 
even  when  curiosity  or  admiration  may  have  been  satis- 
fied in  regard  to  all  the  rest.  From  these  walls  look 
down  such  heavenly  mild  madonnas,  such  rapt  saints, 
such  searching  portraits,  and  especially,  resting  by  her- 
self upon  an  easel,  there  is  the  profile  head  of  a  girl  that 
one  can  hardly  part  from.  It  is  the  very  irregularity  of 
her  piquant  face,  in  which  innocence  and  coquetry  seem 
blended,  that  renders  her  beauty  so  beguiling;  but  one 
can  only  conjecture  how  every  one  melted  before  her 
charm,  for,  like  so  many  presentments  of  the  past,  be 
they  ever  so  alluring,  she  smiles  at  us  from  the  reticence 
of  that  disappointing  title — Unknown  Woman. 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  9 

In  our  researches  among  the  paintings  we  missed  a 
certain  madonna.  The  little  picture  should  be  there, 
but  no  effort  discovered  it.  The  difficulty  of  the  chase 
sharpened  zest;  we  appealed  to  the  military-looking  old 
custodian, — was  there  not  such  a  canvas? 

"  Signore,  you  have  the  catalogue,  and  you  see  that 
it  does  not  appear  there." 

But  we,  privileged  bearers  of  the  Golden  Urn, 
pointed  out  in  that  sacred  volume  the  name. 

"  Signore,"  repeated  the  old  man,  his  voice  drop- 
ping to  a  deeper  bass,  "this  cannot  be  official/' — and  he 
gazed  at  us  sternly,  as  one  who  is  upon  the  point  of  ex- 
posing those  caught  in  the  possession  of  contraband  and 
pernicious  literature. 

We  mildly  stood  our  ground,  but  he  still  disclaimed 
and  shook  his  head.  What  was  our  surprise,  then,  a 
little  later,  to  see  him  emerge  from  a  door  unopened  to 
the  public,  and  advancing  toward  us  with  a  somewhat 
furtive  air,  expose  to  our  eager  gaze  the  little  madonna 
we  sought,  murmuring  at  the  same  time  that  it  had  never 
been  on  exhibition — never.  Having  once  given  way, 
he  indulgently  let  us  look  upon  her  as  long  as  we  chose, 
and  softened  to  our  pleasure  in  her  loveliness.  And  on 
leaving,  what  could  we  do  when  with  tempered  austerity 
he  made  it  easy  for  us  to  evade  the  harsh  rules  posted 
upon  the  walls  forbidding  indulgence  in  gratuities? 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  drove  slowly  through  the 
older  portions  of  the  city.  The  brilliant  day  had  faded 
to  grayness ;  in  the  great  rock-paved  square  before  the 
barracks,  the  sharply  clipped  trees  seemed  to  fold  them- 
selves more  closely  together,  lest  the  blandishments  of 
the  morning  had  tempted  them  to  believe  too  soon  in 
the  coming  of  spring.  We  were  on  our  way  to  the  old 
castello,  or  what  remains  of  it,  for  at  this  day  only  the 
corner  towers  and  certain  portions  of  the  walls  date  back 


io  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

even  to  the  second  founding  of  the  city.  To  be  sure,  it 
is  being  restored,  but  we  meant  to  ignore  the  present 
and  dwell  for  the  moment  only  upon  its  former  glories. 

More  than  once  has  Milan  risen  from  her  ashes,  so 
that  no  traces  of  the  Roman  period  are  left,  but  as  late 
as  the  twelfth  century,  when  she  numbered  within  her 
walls  some  four  hundred  thousand  souls,  she  met  an 
almost  unparalleled  fate.  She  fought  tirelessly  against 
the  claims  of  the  German  emperors,  but  the  great  Bar- 
barossa  was  at  last  too  potent  for  her,  and  when  he  at 
length  overcame  her  he  decreed  that  she  should  be  burned 
to  her  foundations  and  the  land  sowed  with  salt.  It  was 
done,  and  out  of  the  hideous  waste  and  desolation  thus 
created  stood  up  Saint  Ambrogio  and  the  few  other 
churches  spared,  as  sole  evidence  that  a  prosperous,  pop- 
ulous city  had  ever  covered  the  spot.  But  after  a  time, 
with  the  aid  of  sister  cities,  it  was  rebuilt,  and  its  tumult- 
uous changing  life  rolled  on  as  before;  and  the  huge 
inflexible  old  castle,  with  its  deep-toned  surfaces  of 
weathered  brick,  stands  there  to-day  to  conjure  up  before 
the  inner  vision  the  phantoms  of  the  two  great  families 
of  tyrants  that  thereafter  for  two  hundred  years  were 
identified  with  it. 

This  very  afternoon,  against  the  sombre  sky  above 
it,  were  there  not  suggestions  in  the  curling  mist  wreaths 
of  il  gran  biscioney  the  great  serpent  of  the  Visconti  ? 
Strange,  resistless,  wicked,  ferocious  monstrosities  many 
of  them  were,  for  that  race  of  tyrants,  beginning  with 
indomitable  minds,  if  sometimes  .imprisoned  in  puny 
bodies,  lapsed  rapidly  to  blood-lust  and  madness. 
Memorable  things  have  passed  within  those  walls,  and 
certain  figures  and  events  leap  up  with  distinctness  in  the 
memory.  There  upon  the  battlements  spectral  shapes 
seem  to  congregate.  First  among  the  Visconti  group, 
in  its  beginnings  encouraging  culture,  displaying  splendor 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  n 

in  its  court,  showing  military  power  and  diplomatic  abil- 
ity, Matteo,  the  temperate  ruler,  and  his  brutal,  uncon- 
trollable sons.  Then  Galiazzo,  whose  beauty  of  person 
eclipsed  that  of  all  other  men ;  vain  of  his  magnificent 
height,  his  perfect  bearing,  he  stands,  his  long  blond  locks 
confined  in  a  net  of  gold  thread  and  wreathed  with  rose 
garlands,  and  crowding  about  him  the  fair  women  and 
gallant  youths  he  entertained  at  his  court,  blazing  with 
color,  glittering  with  gems,  babbling  of  banqueting, 
hunting  and  hawking — a  pleasure-drunk  rout. 

And  next,  in  contrast,  the  hesitating  form,  the  pallid 
countenance  of  Gian  Galiazzo  —  he  of  the  cowardly, 
shrinking  flesh  but  the  powerful  mind,  the  inexorable 
will,  the  fathomless  craft ;  who  never  led  the  armies  with 
which  he  subjugated  all  the  north  of  Italy,  who  cloaked 
the  poisonings  and  poignardings  with  which  he  came  to 
ascendency,  but  who  knew  how  to  become  yearly  more 
opulent  and  more  dreaded.  At  the  last,  flying  with  terror 
from  the  plague,  yet  unconsciously  bearing  its  seeds  with 
him,  he  died  in  a  remote  fortress,  pointing  out  to  his 
attendants  a  comet  which  appeared  at  that  time  as  the 
signal  ordained  of  God  to  be  the  memorial  of  the  pass- 
ing away  of  his  puissance  from  earth. 

But,  behind  him,  who  is  this  slender  girlish  figure 
that  comes  riding  upon  a  sleekly  groomed  palfrey  ?  It 
is  Gian  Galiazzo's  daughter,  Valentina  Visconti,  one  of 
the  most  pathetic  figures  in  history.  Dearly  cherished, 
richly  dowered,  reluctantly  yielded  up  to  a  princely  mar- 
riage, she  has  parted  from  the  strange  father  who  adored 
her  and  made  her  mistress  of  untold  learned  lore  to 
fare  forth  toward  France ;  her  sumptuous  robes  are  stiff 
with  embroidery  of  precious  stones,  her  neck  and  arms 
weighted  with  costly  jewels,  and  thus  she  goes  to  lavish 
all  the  passionate  devotion  of  her  fervid  nature  upon  the 
young  husband  who  never  gave  her  his  undivided  love, 


12  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

but  for  the  loss  of  whom,  still  young,  brought  in  to  her 
murdered  and  mutilated,  she  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

And  now,  the  ground  about  him  strewed  with  dis- 
membered corpses,  Gian  Maria,  surrounded  by  his 
hounds,  their  fangs  dripping  gore,  but  their  brute  natures 
not  so  savage  as  that  of  the  master  who  fed  them  on 
human  flesh  and  trained  them  to  hunt  down  the  victims 
whose  torture  he  afterwards  gloated  over. 

Then  the  skulking  misshapen  Filippo,  his  deformity 
muffled  in  a  heavy  cloak,  meeting  the  eye  of  no  one, 
emerging  unwillingly  from  the  spider-like  lurking-place 
whence,  almost  unseen  by  the  eyes  of  men,  he  plotted 
and  pulled  the  strings  which  moved  the  affairs  of  his 
duchy;  fitly  the  last  reigning  prince  of  his  name,  to 
such  a  thin  poisonous  fluid  had  the  blood  of  his  family 
declined. 

He  passes,  but  he  is  followed  by  a  stalwart  forceful 
figure  —  Sforza,  the  great  condottiere,  who  turned  from 
tilling  the  soil  to  commanding  armies  and  ruling  multi- 
tudes. Beside  the  cowering  Gian  Maria  he  stands  a 
hero,  with  all  the  nerve  and  brawn  that  had  dwindled  in 
the  Visconti  to  a  thing  with  scarce  the  shape  of  man- 
hood, and  if  he  crushed  again  the  ever-renewed  aspirations 
of  the  Milanese  toward  freedom,  he  at  least  ruled  them 
justly  and  plunged  them  into  no  bloody  wars.  Yet 
even  he  could  leave  them  no  worthy  successor.  The 
degeneration  of  his  race  accomplished  itself  in  even  a 
shorter  time. 

His  son  walks  next,  who  for  his  infamous  crimes 
met  death  by  the  dagger-thrust  of  conspiracy.  Over 
his  shoulder,  with  eyes  flashing  fire,  one  can  see  the  faces 
of  those  three  youths  whose  families  he  had  dishonored, 
and  who  hesitated  not  to  devote  themselves  to  sure  death 
that  they  might  rid  the  world  of  him.  Within  the 
sacred  precincts  of  the  church,  before  the  altar  of  the 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  13 

saint  whose  aid  they  had  just  invoked,  they  struck  him 
down  and  his  blood  gushed  forth,  defiling  the  conse- 
crated pavement. 

Many  other  more  or  less  clearly  defined  shades 
huddle  on  the  ramparts,  but  among  the  last  are  three 
that  most  tempt  the  dreamer's  musings,  a  dark,  subtle- 
browed  man,  a  child-faced,  imperious  woman,  a  gentle, 
confiding  youth, —  Lodovico  il  Moro,  who  ruled  Milan 
with  dignity  and  made  it  the  home  of  artists  and  the 
resort  of  scholars ;  Beatrice,  his  youthful  idolized  wife ; 
and  the  nephew  whose  rights  he  usurped,  yet  could 
attach  to  himself  with  a  tenacious  affection.  Was  it 
pure  lust  of  power  or  worship  of  a  fascinating  capri- 
cious wife  that  caused  Lodovico  to  hesitate  at  no  duplic- 
ity, to  avoid  no  blood-shedding,  to  stop  at  no  dishonor, 
in  the  end  to  calmly  poison  the  boy  who  trusted  him, 
that  the  ducal  power  might  not  be  wrested  from  his 
hands  ?  And  after?  Having  set  the  coronet  upon  the 
curly  head  of  his  Beatrice,  to  lose  her  in  a  moment  and 
at  last  to  languish  out  his  days  in  a  French  dungeon. 

A  grisly  phantasmagoria  the  life  of  that  day  presents 
itself  to  our  sober  onlooking !  Theirs  indeed  was  no 
colorless  existence ;  they  lived  deeply  and  died  violently, 
for  the  most  part;  intemperate  in  their  love  and  hate, 
sinuous  in  their  cunning,  ungovernable  in  their  rapacity, 
and  few  are  the  pages  of  Italian  history  that  picture  it 
more  vividly  than  those  of  Milan. 

BERGAMO. 

On  a  certain  sultry  summer  day,  we  two,  among  the 
latest  reluctant  travelers  to  retreat  from  Italian  heat  to 
the  snows  of  Switzerland,  were  carried  swiftly  past  this 
picturesque  little  place,  gazing  up  wistfully  at  it  with  the 
impulse  to  make  it  a  pretext  for  one  more  delay  before 


i4  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

leaving  the  soil  of  Italy.  But  time,  that  claims  its  inev- 
itable toll  of  us,  sometimes  grants  us  compensations,  and 
so,  three  years  later,  the  loss  is  made  good;  we  have  so- 
journed in  Bergamo,  and  it  has  become  one  of  our  pos- 
sessions !  Prudent  friends  shook  their  heads  at  the  idea 
of  a  pilgrimage  to  unfrequented  towns  under  the  very 
eaves  of  the  Alps  in  March.  We  should  be  subjected 
to  deadly  chill  in  comfortless  little  inns ;  there  was  no 
knowing  what  might  happen  to  us.  But  fate  is  kind ; 
an  almost  premature  warmth  and  mildness  makes  every- 
thing easy.  It  does  not  even  rain,  and  we  can  loiter  in 
the  open  air  all  day. 

Bergamo  is  divided  distinctly  into  an  old  portion, 
the  Alta  Citta,  which  broods  upon  steep  hills  above,  and 
a  larger,  newer  one,  which  spreads  out  upon  the  plain 
below.  From  the  lower  level  one  may  reach  the  upper 
by  a  steep  enough  carriage  ascent  with  many  turnings,  or 
by  a  little  black  half-hidden  funicolare,  or  cable-tram,  by 
which  you  are  pulled  up  in  no  time;  but  returning  it  is 
pleasantest  to  walk  down  at  sunset,  making  long  pauses 
on  the  different  terraces,  and  finally  taking  an  abrupt 
plunge  downward  through  little  lanes  lined  with  stone  all 
but  overhead,  the  tall  gray  garden  walls  meeting  the  big 
uneven  paving-stones  on  either  side. 

In  the  morning,  however,  we  gave  ourselves  to  more 
systematic  sight-seeing.  It  being  King  Humbert's  birth- 
day, a  military  parade  caused  us  to  dodge  about  and  take 
long  detours  as  we  searched  out  certain  churches  where 
lurked  pictures  we  wished  to  see,  and  we  were  alone  in 
our  occupation  of  the  public  gallery  for  as  long  as  we 
chose  to  remain.  As  we  left,  we  asked  the  custodian 
whether  he  thought  strangers  were  ever  admitted  to  a 
certain  private  palazzo.  He  opined  that  they  were,  and 
we  decided  to  apply,  for  we  were  reluctant  to  go  away 
without  seeing  a  collection  of  pictures  so  often  referred 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  15 

to.  Our  driver  drew  up  before  the  usual  broad  entrance 
directly  upon  the  street,  which  leads  to  an  open  inner 
court,  and  just  within  we  found  a  small  gray-haired  por- 
tiery  with  a  manner  so  full  of  courtesy  and  deference  that 
we  explained  our  wishes  quite  courageously.  He  asked 
for  a  visiting-card  to  carry  up,  and  disappeared  for  a  few 
moments. 

We  had  not  waited  long  when  he  came  back  and 
cheerfully  invited  us  to  proceed  upstairs.  At  the  top  we 
should  ordinarily  have  been  met  by  a  second  servant,  who 
would  have  taken  us  to  the  picture-gallery ;  but  what  was 
our  surprise  to  find  standing  there  some  one  whom  we 
could  not  doubt  to  be  the  lady  of  the  castle  herself.  She 
saluted  us  with  a  pleasant  smile.  Her  face  was  luminous 
with  gentleness  and  sweetness,  and  her  manner  full  of  a 
cordial  and  simple  hospitality;  over  her  soft  gray  hair 
fell  some  fine  old  lace,  but  the  mild  blue  eyes  below  had 
a  spent  look,  partly  from  age  but  more  from  feeble  health. 
Her  breath  was  somewhat  labored,  and  she  moved  lan- 
guidly, but  she  told  us  we  were  welcome  to  see  the 
pictures,  which  she  would  be  happy  to  show  us  herself, 
as  she  was  nearly  alone  in  the  house,  and  we  inferred 
that  most  of  the  household  had  gone  to  see  the  demon- 
strations in  honor  of  the  holiday  being  celebrated  out- 
.side.  She  led  us  first  to  the  drawing-room,  where  she 
made  us  sit  down  for  a  while,  talking  cheerfully  all  the 
time,  and  calling  our  attention  to  all  she  thought  would 
interest  us.  She  spoke  in  French,  with  a  slightly  foreign 
accent.  When  we  had  looked  at  the  pictures  there,  and 
she  had  also  shown  us  some  in  portfolios,  she  took  us  to 
the  next  room,  and  so  on  through  the  private  apartments 
of  the  Palazzo,  even  to  her  husband's  study  and  her 
daughter's  boudoir.  The  pictures,  rare  and  valuable  ex- 
amples of  some  of  the  old  masters,  were  scattered  through 
the  different  rooms,  and  in  some  almost  covered  the 


16  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

walls.  There  was  no  segregation  of  them  in  a  chilly 
gallery.  The  family  loved  them  and  lived  among  them. 

Of  some  she  could  tell  us  interesting  things,  of 
others  she  confessed  she  knew  little.  She  encouraged  us 
to  stay,  and  at  last  even  fell  to  speaking  with  feeling  of 
her  own  life,  and  of  the  loss  of  a  dear  daughter  whose 
only  boy  she  was  bringing  up  as  a  precious  legacy.  Just 
then  the  door  opened,  and  a  bonny,  rosy-faced  lad  of 
perhaps  eleven  years  stood  on  the  threshold.  Without 
a  moment's  hesitation  he  walked  rapidly  forward,  and 
took  both  our  hands,  bending  low  over  them  in  the 
prettiest  way.  He  spoke  a  few  words  to  his  grand- 
mother to  prefer  some  request,  and  she  then  dismissed 
him.  Then  she  showed  us  photographs  and  books,  an 
autograph  copy  of  the  poems  of  Carmen  Silva,  whom 
she  admired  and  was  fond  of  as  a  friend,  and  whose  pho- 
tograph she  proceeded  to  show  us,  taken  in  a  group  with 
her  own  family.  In  short,  if  we  had  brought  credentials 
with  us  we  could  not  have  been  made  more  warmly  wel- 
come, and  we  left  with  a  cordial  pressure  of  the  hands  on 
both  sides  that  quite  wiped  out  any  uncomfortable  feel- 
ing we  might  have  experienced  at  first,  as  of  having 
asked  to  be  admitted  where  we  had  no  right  to  demand 
it;  and  though  it  may  not  usually  fall  to  one's  lot  to  be 
treated  quite  so  intimately,  it  is  true  that  throughout 
Italy  the  most  generous  feeling  exists  with  regard  to  the 
proprietorship  of  valuable  pictures  in  private  homes,  and 
on  the  simple  presentation  of  a  visiting-card  one  can 
usually  be  permitted  to  enter  and  spend  as  much  time 
before  them  as  one  pleases. 

We  had  made  a  long  morning,  and  so  went  to  the 
hotel  for  luncheon  and  a  rest  afterwards  in  the  empty 
grandeur  of  an  upper  banqueting-hall,  in  whose  cool 
semi-darkness  we  lounged  for  a  while,  and  amused  our- 
selves with  inspecting  certain  cabinets  of  china  and  big 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  17 

carved  ornaments,  used  on  great  occasions.  We  had 
engaged  our  driver  of  the  forenoon  to  return  and  take 
us  in  the  afternoon  to  visit  a  castle  in  the  country,  and 
when  the  time  neared  for  his  appearance  we  pushed  the 
shutters  apart  and  sat  on  a  little  balcony  overlooking 
the  street.  Everywhere  in  Italy  there  is  much  prepara- 
tion for  gazing  out  of  windows  and  leaning  upon  the 
railings  of  balconies.  Soft  cushions  embellished  with 
bright  fringe  are  ready  for  lounging  elbows  and  pro- 
voke to  shameless  idleness.  If  a  sudden  shower  comes 
up,  a  servant  flies  from  room  to  room  snatching  them 
in  till  the  danger  is  past. 

Punctual  to  the  hour  our  vetturino  appeared  at  the 
front  door,  and  we  went  down  to  begin  our  drive. 

We  were  on  our  way  to  the  Castle  of  Malpaga, 
favorite  abode  of  the  great  Colleone,  famous  warrior  and 
commander-in-chief  of  the  forces  of  Venice,  in  his  day 
the  highest  military  position  in  Italy.  There  he  lived 
in  the  quieter  intervals  of  his  stirring  life  and  held  a 
court  almost  regal  in  splendor.  We  left  the  shadow  of 
the  mountains  and  struck  out  upon  the  plain — the  great 
Lombard  plain  of  upper  Italy,  quiet  enough  now,  with 
its  fertile  land  lying  tilled  in  the  golden  sunshine,  but 
once  the  bloody  battle-ground  of  nations. 

For  us  of  the  Western  frontier,  where  leagues  of 
land  lie  idle,  there  is  something  wonderfully  interesting 
in  a  country  where  every  foot  of  the  soil  is  so  cared  for, 
so  coaxed  and  nursed,  as  it  is  here,  and  where  the  high- 
ways are  never  deep  with  mud  in  winter  and  with  pow- 
dery dust  in  summer.  Here  the  question  is  not  asked, 
"  Shall  we  have  good  roads  ? "  but  roads  perfectly  con- 
structed and  maintained  exist  everywhere.  So  well 
drained  are  they  that  even  after  days  of  rain  one  need 
not  hesitate  to  start  on  a  drive  of  any  length,  and  at 
intervals  upon  the  margin  of  the  roadway  lie  little  symmet- 


18  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 


x)iled  heaps  of  stone  broken  to  the  size  of  walnuts, 
ready  for  instant  use  should  a  rut  or  hollow  appear. 

Not  a  bit  of  rough,  neglected,  carelessly  tilled  earth 
was  there  anywhere  in  sight  this  afternoon,  not  an 
unsightly  wire  fence,  not  a  building  that  was  not  pictur- 
esque in  its  own  way.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
wooden  shed  or  outbuilding.  Everything  is  of  stone, 
cement  and  tile,  and  the  barns  especially  are  many  of 
them  delightful  to  behold.  Those  for  the  protection 
of  the  harvest  are  built  quite  open  to  the  air.  A  heavy 
roof  of  great  extent  is  supported  for  its  length  upon 
brick  pillars.  On  one  side  the  spaces  between  are  left 
open ;  on  the  other  they  are  built  up  in  panels  of  brick 
or  tile  lattice,  each  panel  being  of  a  different  design, 
like  pretty  open  basketwork  of  varied  pattern. 

A  drive  of  an  hour  or  so  brought  us  to  Malpaga, 
now  given  over  to  farm  uses  upon  the  vast  estate  of  the 
Martinengo  family.  How  it  seems  to  link  the  present 
with  the  past  to  think  that  the  descendants  of  those  very 
Martinengos,  to  one  of  whom,  five  hundred  years  ago, 
Colleone  married  his  daughter,  still  occupy  the  land ;  but 
one  cannot  but  sigh  at  their  indifference  to  the  posses- 
sion of  such  a  priceless  relic  as  this  castle,  it  and  its  out- 
buildings being  used  as  granaries  and  habitations  for  the 
various  families  of  laborers  of  the  farmer  tenants.  In 
the  moat  grow  mulberry  trees,  and  the  stately  rooms  of 
the  interior  are  heaped  with  grain.  The  best  preserved 
of  these  apartments  are  on  the  ground  floor  and  still 
show  their  frescoes  in  tolerable  preservation — scenes  from 
the  adventurous  life  of  Colleone,  his  hunting  and  hawk- 
ing parties,  his  great  battles,  the  honors  done  him  by  the 
city  of  Venice,  and  the  visit  paid  him  by  the  King  of 
Denmark. 

We  were  shown  all  over  the  building,  and  in  our 
explorations  were  followed  by  two  pretty  peasant  girls 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  19 

full  of  undisguised  interest  and  curiosity.  Their  wooden- 
soled  shoes,  in  only  the  toes  of  which  their  feet  seemed 
to  be  at  home,  clapped  briskly  along  the  floors  after  us, 
and  how  they  did  not  fall  off  at  every  step  was  a  mys- 
tery unsolved  by  us,  but  evidently  causing  no  embarrass- 
ment to  them.  After  we  had  descended  from  the 
battlements,  where  we  tarried  longest,  and  passed  below 
the  portcullis  and  out  into  the  spacious  yard,  the  most 
primitive  and  pictorial  of  ox-carts  labored  in  and  took  up 
its  position  near  the  drawbridge ;  and  when  a  score  or 
more  of  idling  women  and  brown,  unkempt  little  children 
approached  it  and  fell  unconsciously  into  such  a  group 
as  satisfied  even  our  yearning  desire  for  the  picturesque 
and  mediaeval,  we  were  indeed  content,  and  left  Malpaga 
with  a  feeling  of  happy  security  that  filled  the  present 
nor  feared  disillusionment  in  the  future. 

BRESCIA. 

Early  in  the  morning  I  pushed  open  the  casement 
window  in  the  thick  wall  of  my  room  at  Brescia  and 
looked  out  with  the  eagerness  of  discovery,  for  arriving 
after  dark  the  night  before  there  had  been  little  oppor- 
tunity for  observation  on  the  way  to  the  hotel,  trans- 
ported hastily  as  we  were  by  a  little  omnibus  that  jerked 
us  unceremoniously  from  side  to  side  in  a  thick  darkness 
that  was  now  and  again  shot  through  by  a  flash  of  light 
from  the  infrequent  lamps  that  dotted  the  way.  To 
have  been  given  clean  and  comfortable  quarters  on  arriv- 
ing unannounced  and  late  in  the  evening,  we  took  for 
undeserved  good  fortune. 

It  must  be  allowed  that  we  do  sometimes  encounter 
curious  sleeping  accommodations ;  for  example,  the  pillows 
in  Brescia  appear  to  be  stuffed  with  potatoes.  I  scorn 
exaggeration  and  do  not  say  paving-stones,  for  they  are 


20  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

not  so  unyielding  as  that,  but  potatoes  of  various  sizes, 
tough,  resisting  lumps.  I  petitioned  our  chambermaid  to 
produce  a  feather  pillow  if  the  hotel  yielded  such  a  thing. 
She  shook  her  head ;  her  mind  could  not  rise  to  the  com- 
prehension of  such  unreasonableness.  She  remarked 
that  she  could  furnish  me  with  a  cushion  for  my  feet ! 
The  sheets,  too, —  they  are  linen,  of  vast  extent,  thick  and 
stiff,  clammy-cold,  and  heavy  as  the  leaden  copes  of 
Dante.  When  we  have  blankets  we  count  ourselves 
fortunate ;  sometimes  there  are  Canton  flannel  ones,  or 
board-like  cotton  quilts  of  great  age.  But  these  things 
are  not  mentioned  in  a  spirit  of  complaint,  but  merely 
of  passing  observation ;  they  are  but  a  part  of  the  by- 
ways of  Italy. 

But  to  return  to  my  casement.  The  sun  was  shin- 
ing, everything  looked  fresh  and  lustrous.  I  glanced 
down  and  saw  the  rain-washed  arcaded  street.  Opposite, 
gable  windows  peeped  out  from  under  scalloped  red  tiles, 
and  roofs  were  piled  one  over  another  in  irregular  lines. 
Long  tendrils  of  grape  scrambled  over  trellises.  Were 
their  roots  in  pots,  or  were  they  absolutely  in  the  earth 
below,  and  the  vines  lured  to  this  height  ?  The  splash 
of  a  fountain  could  be  heard  not  far  off.  How  sweet 
it  all  was  !  I  could  not  forbear  kissing  my  hand  to  the 
beauty  and  charm  of  it,  and  instantly  afterward  discov- 
ered a  youth  gazing  toward  me  from  a  window  hard  by. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  if  he  observed  this  foolish  demon- 
stration he  merely  put  it  down  to  the  unaccountable 
behavior  of  foreigners,  who  must  be  rare  in  Brescia,  for 
we  have  seen  nothing  resembling  a  tourist.  Indeed,  the 
expression  matto  inglesey  accompanied  by  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  grants  resigned  indulgence  to  many  a  vagary 
of  the  mad  English,  incomprehensible  to  the  Italian 
imagination. 

Breakfast  we  had  been  warned  not  to  take  in  the 


BRESCIA.     TILE  LATTICE. 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  21 

hotel;  meals  were  to  be  sought  in  a  caffe  near  by,  and  we 
repaired  to  it,  and  sat  gingerly  at  the  end  of  a  long  table 
as  far  as  possible  from  the  cigarette-smoking  frequenters 
of  the  place.  The  coffee,  of  course,  was  bad,  the  butter 
mere  tallow,  but  the  rolls  were  crisp  and  good  and  we 
ate  them  contentedly,  and  later  strolled  forth  to  explore. 

Brescia  is  called  the  city  of  fountains,  and  an  unlim- 
ited supply  of  cool  clear  water  from  the  Alps  gushes 
and  gurgles  in  every  direction.  The  fountains  are  cen- 
tres of  social  life ;  the  women  surround  them  in  the 
morning  to  wash  their  clothes  in  the  marble  basins  and 
at  all  hours  of  the  day  come  with  their  buckets  to  draw 
water  and  chat. 

No  guides  assailed  us,  that  precious  immunity 
gained  by  being  where  tourists  are  infrequent,  and 
becoming  involved  in  certain  unexpected  turnings  and 
intricate  passages  through  and  under  buildings,  we  in- 
quired our  direction  of  a  sweet-looking  Italian  lady. 
She  was  all  helpful  interest  at  once,  and  offered  to  walk 
with  us,  as  she  was  to  pass  the  street  we  desired  to  go  to. 
As  we  went,  we  told  her  of  our  distant  home  and  long 
journey,  and  she  smiled  in  a  pretty  surprise ;  America 
appeared  to  be  a  hazy  unreality  to  her,  but  she  chatted 
pleasantly  for  the  few  minutes  it  took  to  put  us  upon 
the  right  way.  At  the  corner  of  our  street  we  parted 
with  quite  a  ceremony  of  shaking  hands  and  exchanging 
good  wishes.  In  another  country  we  should,  to  be  sure, 
have  been  directed  civilly,  and  we  should  have  separated 
with  thanks  and  a  polite  bow,  but  here  we  seemed  some- 
how to  have  been  made  free  of  the  city,  and  even  if  we 
had  been  inclined  to  feel  lonely  orjinfriended,  after  that 
it  would  have  been  impossible. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  little  encounter,  together  with 
the  delicious  morning,  that  made  us  think  Brescia  so 
livable  and  homelike,  and  imbued  us  with  a  cordiality 


22  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

for  all  the  inhabitants  from  the  barefooted  urchins  play- 
ing hide-and-seek  who  pattered  over  the  solemn  courts 
where  we  went  to  gaze  at  historic  architecture,  to  the 
occasional  old  beggars  in  their  costumes  of  appropriately 
arranged  penury,  who  sat  at  convenient  angles  for  trade. 
In  quieter  corners  of  the  town,  where  the  clean  flagged 
streets  only  resound  to  the  step  of  an  occasional  passer- 
by, we  found  the  two  little  picture  galleries,  the  founda- 
tions of  different  great  families. 

The  adventure  of  searching  out  a  small,  seldom- 
frequented  gallery  is  sure  to  be  a  pleasant  one.  There 
is  first  the  old  custodian  who  issues  from  his  narrow 
hiding-place  on  the  ground  floor  to  gaze  at  you  over  his 
spectacles  and  consent  to  let  you  inspect  his  treasures. 
Then  perhaps  you  pass  through  a  sunny  little  inner 
court,  where  a  bit  of  green  grass  smiles  up  at  a  dislocated 
old  fountain,  and  a  tossing  vine  throws  flickering  shadows 
down  between  the  cloister  columns;  and  then  up  various 
flights  of  stairs  and  through  resounding  passages,  till  at 
last  a  big  door  is  unlocked  with  a  key  of  pounds'  weight, 
and  you  are  admitted  to  the  society  you  love.  If  he  is 
an  undesirable  custodian  he  then  stays,  giving  you  super- 
fluous information  and  calling  your  attention  to  the 
pictures  you  least  wish  to  see,  with  the  aim  of  slightly 
enlarging  that  fee  which  will  terminate  the  visit.  In  this 
case  he  must  be  kindly  but  firmly  discouraged.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  is  of  the  order  we  best  like,  he  observes 
that  he  has  an  errand  downstairs,  and  then  leaves  us  to 
range  about  at  will,  to  find  what  we  are  there  to  seek, 
perhaps  to  neglect  all  the  big  canvases  and  spend  our 
time  in  some  corner  with  treasures  which  we  like  to  look 
upon  as  discoveries  of  our  own.  Blissful,  satisfying  hours 
these;  tranquillity  and  peace  pervade  them;  unquiet 
memories,  teasing  thoughts  vanish  away  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  these  beloved  retreats. 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  23 

It  is  hard  for  the  lover  of  early  Italian  pictures  to 
give  a  measured  reason  for  his  feelings.  He  has  little 
to  offer  to  the  scoffer  who  gains  a  cheap  compensation 
for  an  arid  state  of  mind  in  the  ridicule  of  what  is  sacred 
to  the  believer.  The  latter  only  knows  that  he  loves  to 
stand  before  these  canvases,  looking  down  at  him  to-day 
with  all  their  reverential  purpose,  their  unapproachable 
beauty,  their  heavenly  simplicity.  They  hold  the  spirit 
of  another  age,  which  has  perished  out  of  ours  never  to 
return,  and  yet  whose  hallowing  presence  still  hovers  in 
the  art  it  has  handed  down  to  us  and  whose  influence 
will  penetrate  the  heart  that  is  open  to  it  and  fill  it  with 
a  pure  and  unalloyed  happiness. 

In  the  afternoon  we  were  prepared  to  go  to  Paitone, 
a  hamlet  lying  some  miles  out  in  the  country,  and  hav- 
ing found  a  driver  who  knew  the  way  we  started  forth. 
Can  anything  be  pleasanter  than  leaning  comfortably 
back  in  a  little  victoria,  so  low  and  so  open  that  you  are 
at  once  brought  into  intimacy  with  the  roadside,  jogging 
along  through  a  new  and  beautiful  country,  sweet  with 
all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  spring?  Our  faces  were 
turned  westward  so  that  the  mountains  lay  on  our  left, 
and  we  followed  the  curvings  of  the  foothills  while  on 
our  right  spread  the  great  plain.  Ditches  bounded  the 
road  on  either  side — but  alas!  why  is  there  not  some 
endearing  term  for  ditches?  These  were  miniature  canals, 
full  of  clear  water  and  bordered  by  flowering  weeds  and 
tortured  old  pollards  whose  ever-renewed  efforts  to  grow 
had  been  so  often  pitilessly  suppressed  that  the  most 
fantastic  and  knobby  contortions  were  the  result.  At 
intervals  we  passed  through  little  villages,  awakening  a 
passing  interest  in  the  rural  inhabitants  and  feeling  even 
more  in  them.  At  length  we  approached  Paitone,  and  I 
began  to  explain  to  our  driver  that  our  goal  was  a  certain 
chapel  in  which  was  the  most  famous  madonna  of  the 


24  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

region,  which  we  had  come  from  America  to  see.  He 
was  quite  ignorant  of  any  such  sanctuary,  but  would 
make  inquiries,  which  he  proceeded  to  do  of  the  inhabi- 
tants, who  proved  to  be  as  unconscious  of  it  as  he.  At 
length,  however,  the  church  was  pointed  out,  a  little  edi- 
fice some  distance  away  on  the  rocky  ledge  of  a  hill,  and 
we  crossed  the  fields  toward  it.  Below  it  we  gave  the 
driver  leave  to  go  back  to  the  public  house,  there  to  rest 
his  horses  and  refresh  himself  while  we  paid  our  orisons, 
and  as  the  little  carriage  cheerfully  rattled  away  a  great 
quietness  seemed  to  settle  upon  everything.  Not  a 
human  being  was  in  sight  excepting  the  bent  figure  of  an 
old  woman  descending  the  irregular  steps  above  the 
church,  with  fagots  upon  her  head. 

"  Let  us  take  a  picture  of  that  dear  little  place 
against  the  sky  before  we  climb  up  to  it,"  said  my  com- 
panion, "for  when  we  come  out  the  light  will  be  gone." 

We  did  so,  reverently,  and  then  mounted  the  steps 
and  entered.  It  was  empty,  but  that  was  all  the  better, 
and  our  eyes  roved  in  search  of  the  picture.  It  was  not 
in  sight,  but  a  picture  there  was,  wkh  a  curtain  drawn 
closely  over  it,  as  is  the  custom  where  there  is  one  too 
precious  to  be  exposed  excepting  on  special  occasions. 
We  now  found  the  need  of  a  custodian  and  began  to 
search  for  one.  We  knocked  at  doors,  we  walked  round 
the  outside  of  the  building,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Dared 
we  with  profane  hands  draw  that  curtain,  and  perhaps  be 
caught  in  the  very  act !  We  hesitated  before  temptation, 
but  we  yielded,  and  stealthily  pulled  the  cords  that  rolled 
up  the  silken  barrier.  Alas,  our  madonna  was  not  there! 
This  poor  insignificant  canvas  was  but  a  mockery  of 
what  we  were  looking  for.  Hastily  we  attempted  to  cover 
it  again,  and  oh,  horror !  the  cords  became  entangled,  the 
curtain  stuck  fast  half-way  down  and  all  our  efforts  to  dis- 
lodge it  failed.  There  was  no  concealing  our  profanation. 


BRESCIA.     ON  THE  WAY  TO  PAITONE. 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  25 

Dismay  seized  us.  Two  guilty  beings  hastened  from 
that  church  door  looking  fearfully  to  be  met  upon  the 
threshold  by  an  enraged  priest.  But  fortune  sometimes 
favors  the  evil-doer;  all  was  as  solitary  as  before.  Our 
spirits  rose  as  we  discovered  over  the  edge  of  the  terrace 
a  little  stone  building  and  high-walled  garden,  wherein  a 
priest  was  pacing  up  and  down,  and  our  instantly  ripened 
plan  was  to  ascertain  from  that  priest  the  real  location  of 
the  chapel  and  then  escape  before  he  had  discovered  our 
crime  in  the  church.  We  descended  to  the  level  of  the 
door  in  the  wall  and  knocked  boldly;  after  a  time  it  was 
opened  and  the  pleasant-mannered  ecclesiastic  listened  to 
our  questions.  The  chapel?  Oh,  that  was  it,  high  up 
above  us,  half  an  hour's  walk  away !  We  were  dismayed. 
Night  would  soon  be  upon  us.  What  was  to  be  done? 
To  go  away  defeated  was  not  to  be  borne,  however.  We 
thanked  him,  and  hurried  off  in  the  direction  indicated. 
We  passed  a  few  goats  and  children  upon  the  way.  The 
path  climbed  and  twisted  between  rocks  and  scrubby 
bushes,  and  we  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  little  chapel, 
so  much  more  charming  than  the  small  Renaissance  build- 
ing we  had  been  mistakenly  sent  to. 

Some  three  hundred  years  ago  when  the  plague  was 
sweeping  away  the  population  of  this  country,  and  terror 
and  suffering  spread  far  and  wide,  the  pitying  Madonna 
appeared  upon  this  hillside  to  a  deaf-and-dumb  boy,  so, 
upon  the  site  of  the  miracle  this  little  votive  chapel  was 
built,  and  for  it  was  painted  the  finest  work  of  one  of  the 
greatest  North  Italian  masters,  Moretto.  It  was  this 
that  we  were  eager  to  see,  and  at  last  we  reached  the 
elevation  of  the  entrance,  upon  the  shelf  hollowed  out 
for  it  against  the  declivity.  But  here  the  door  was  fast, 
and  no  rapping  evoked  an  answer.  Panic  seized  us 
again — was  all  our  effort  to  be  for  naught?  We  held 
our  breath  and  listened,  and  presently  heard  the  cracked 


26  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

notes  of  a  ditty  interrupted  by  measured  jerks  and 
grunts  as,  apparently,  some  rural  implement  struck  the 
soft  clods  of  a  garden-bed.  We  ran  to  the  parapet  at 
one  side  to  look  over,  and  there  beheld  an  old  man  thus 
musically  lightening  his  evening  labors.  We  hailed  him, 
and  he  started  and  looked  up  in  great  surprise.  Could 
we,  might  we,  be  allowed  entrance  to  the  chapel  ?  He 
cordially  consented.  He  had  expected  no  one,  he  had 
not  heard  the  Signore  knocking,  and  he  hastened  from 
the  little  vegetable-bed  and  disappeared,  presently  to 
reappear  at  the  door  of  the  chapel,  which  he  threw  open 
for  us. 

The  valley  below  was  already  in  shadow,  but  the 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  entered  with  us,  and  lay 
along  the  floor,  as  we  stood  looking  toward  the  high 
altar.  It  was  all  dark  above  and  the  altar  itself  was 
already  obscured,  but  a  wonderful  and  unearthly  presence 
seemed  to  be  there,  poised  in  the  air,  and  floating  down 
toward  us.  The  form  was  of  the  size  of  life,  the  cloud- 
like  folds  of  pure  white  drapery  melted  into  the  darkness 
behind,  and  the  face  was  full  of  ineffable  tenderness  and 
compassion.  It  was  inexpressibly  beautiful  and  touching. 

There  was  something  sacred  in  the  hour,  the  loneli- 
ness, the  withdrawal  of  it  all  to  the  solitude  of  this 
remote  spot.  It  was  strangely  moving,  and  sterner 
heretics  than  those  who  stood  before  it  silent  might 
have  yielded  in  that  moment  to  a  feeling  strongly  akin 
to  the  devotion  of  its  humblest  worshipers. 

MANTUA. 

Primus  Idumseas  referam  tibi,  Mantua,  palmas 
Et  viridi  in  campo  templum  de  marmore  ponam 
Propter  aquam,  tardis  ingens  ubi  flexibus  errat 
Mincius  et  tenera  praetexit  harundine  ripas. 

— VERG.    Georg.   III. 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  27 

The  slow-flowing  Mincio  almost  surrounds  Mantua 
and  broadens  out  till  it  embraces  the  town  with  a 
chain  of  lakes.  The  clear  shallow  water  as  it  lay  blue 
under  the  sky  this  afternoon  was  very  lovely.  An 
occasional  boat  drew  long  ripples  across  it,  sedges  grew 
up  through  it  at  intervals,  and  a  golden  haze  seemed  to 
hover  over  its  pure,  still  reaches.  We  hung  upon  one 
of  the  low  bridges  whose  marching  arches  span  it,  and 
wondered  if  the  water  at  least  looked  just  the  same  to 
that  "  courteous  Mantuan  soul "  whom  Dante  apostro- 
phizes, and  afterward  to  the  great  Florentine  himself. 
Where  the  lakes  leave  off  marshes  begin  and  so  complete 
the  boundary.  The  town  is  busy  enough  in  the  crowded 
arcades  of  its  center,  but  out  here  was  silence  and  a  far 
level  horizon,  and  one  could  contemplate  its  strange  his- 
toric past,  so  great  and  various,  from  the  time  of  Vergil 
down  to  that  of  the  mighty  Gonzagas  who  held  court 
here  for  generations,  and  have  left  a  castle  and  a  palace 
that  alone  would  house  the  population  of  a  town. 

The  castle  abuts  upon  the  river,  and  when  we  left 
the  bridge  we  passed  beneath  and  around  it  into  a  spa- 
cious gravel  courtyard,  full  of  dignified  trees  and  ancient 
stone  benches.  Here  again  we  loitered  and  as  we  sat, 
letting  our  eyes  wander  over  the  immense  extent  of  roofs 
and  walls,  we  were  tempted  to  wonder  where  the  palace 
ended  and  the  other  structures  began.  But  presently, 
when  we  had  entered  it  and  wandered  through  what 
appeared  to  be  miles  of  stately  rooms,  suite  after  suite, 
floor  after  floor,  court  after  court,  we  could  have  believed 
that  not  only  the  quarter  of  the  city  we  had  just  seen 
was  all  comprised  in  the  palace,  but  that  nearly  all  Mantua 
was.  The  most  captious  traveler  might  here  acknowl- 
edge that  he  had  at  last  seen  something  which  in  extent 
and  magnificence  satisfied  his  ideas  of  royalty,  and  yet 
this  was  not  a  kingdom  but  only  an  Italian  duchy  of 


28  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

extent  that  to-day  seems  toylike  to  have  been  of  such 
importance. 

Of  course,  much  of  the  palace  is  ruinous  now,  and 
it  fills  one  with  speculation  that  rivers  of  wealth  should 
have  been  poured  out  to  line  it  with  such  a  luxury  of 
marble,  mosaic  and  fresco,  and  then  that  it  should  have 
been  allowed  to  go  to  decay.  The  ceilings,  ponderous 
with  carving  and  warm  with  the  rich  subdued  color  and 
tarnished  gilding  that  adhere  to  them  still,  are  wonders, 
and  even  the  walls  of  balconies  and  outer  courts  are  en- 
riched with  painting  by  the  first  masters  of  that  day.  In 
one  place  a  sort  of  hanging  garden  had  been  constructed 
upon  the  level  of  the  second  story,  in  which  still  flourish 
sturdy  shrubs  and  a  large  magnolia  tree. 

The  guide  offered  to  spare  us  certain  wings  of  the 
building,  but  of  all  that  was  shown  we  were  determined 
to  leave  nothing  unseen.  In  a  smaller  place  we  might 
have  felt  fatigue,  but  here  the  very  vastness  spurred  us — 
we  would  explore  every  possibility. 

At  last  we  found  the  strangest  suite  of  apartments 
that  surely  ever  was  fashioned — drawing-room,  bed- 
rooms, a  chapel,  even  a  long  staircase,  and  all  adapted 
to  the  size  of  dwarfs.  "  The  Gonzagas  kept  a  breed  of 
them,"  the  chronicler  crudely  remarks.  We  sat  upon 
the  doll-like  seats  niched  in  the  walls ;  the  small  windows 
admitted  but  a  half-light  from  an  inner  court.  What 
was  the  existence  like  that  went  on  here  among  these 
poor  little  fragments  of  humanity  that  lived  their  lives 
and  reproduced  their  kind  to  be  the  playthings  of  the 
giants  they  served?  In  the  few  frescoes  by  the  great 
Mantegna  that  remain  and  still  look  down  from  the 
walls,  carrying  the  conviction  of  true  delineation,  there 
appear  among  the  plain,  unflattered  faces  and  square 
figures  of  the  Gonzaga  family  some  of  these  grotesque 
pigmies,  large-headed,  abnormal,  with  something  stolid 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  29 

and  patient  about  them,  like  certain  pet  animals,  which 
indeed  they  resemble. 

It  will  give  some  idea  of  the  almost  boundless  extent 
of  the  Castle  of  the  Gonzagas  to  add  that  beyond  all  we 
explored  there  was  still  room  in  it  to  form  the  spacious 
barracks  of  Mantua.  At  its  outer  boundary  it  forms 
one  side  of  a  great  stone-flagged  parallelogram,  the  Piazza 
Sordello.  Piazza  Sordello !  how  the  words  fire  the  fancy, 
as  the  name  of  this  splendid  and  obvious  square  seems 
to  put  reality  into  the  tantalizing  and  elusive  personality 
that  Browning  teases  us  with !  On  the  opposite  side  an 
even  more  ancient-looking  edifice  attracted  our  attention ; 
very  hoary  and  time-gnawed  was  its  fa9ade,  and  from  the 
line  of  its  top,  in  a  long  row,  soared  the  Ghibelline  swal- 
low-tails. 

I  asked  our  driver,  as  we  went  away,  what  it  was,  as 
the  guide-book  made  no  mention  of  it.  "  Palazzo  Buo- 
nacolsi,"  he  replied.  Then  I  remembered  that  the  fortune 
of  the  Gonzagas  was  founded  when  the  first  one  of  their 
number  who  became  prominent  murdered  his  master, 
the  head  of  the  Buonacolsi  family,  and  became  para- 
mount in  the  city.  So,  for  the  four  hundred  years  that 
the  Gonzagas  ruled,  there  before  them  for  all  those  gen- 
erations stood  the  reproach  of  their  beginning !  Did  any 
of  them  wince  at  it?  Perhaps  not.  Those  were  strange 
and  terrible  times  and  compunction  found  little  place  in 
them.  Out  of  the  mass  of  the  Buonacolsi  palace  rises 
a  square  brick  tower,  many  stories  in  height,  but  unor- 
namented,  and  with  very  few  openings.  Such  a  tower  is 
inviting  anywhere,  for  from  its  top  one  may  study  at 
leisure  the  topography  of  the  country,  but  in  a  flat  city 
in  the  midst  of  a  wide  plain,  it  is  invaluable.  We  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  climb  it,  and  through  the  waste  and 
lumber-encumbered  places  at  its  foot  were  made  free  of  it. 

Part  way  up,  above  all  the  tall  roofs  near  it  there  is 


30  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

a  small  window,  and  outside  it  hangs  a  square  iron  cage. 
At  the  sight  of  this  sinister-looking  object  vague  memo- 
ries of  grewsome  tales  stirred  in  the  mind.  It  was  not 
high  enough  to  stand  up  in  nor  long  enough  to  lie  down 
in.  We  asked  and  found  our  conjectures  confirmed. 
Into  that  horrible  thing  criminals  were  forced,  there  to 
be  left,  in  the  view  of  all  the  city,  to  die  of  hunger  and 
thirst  or  the  fiery  heat  of  their  summer  climate,  a  climate 
where  no  laborer  can  work  upon  the  streets  in  the  middle 
hours  of  the  day,  as  stone  and  iron  from  the  mere  effect 
of  the  sun's  rays  scorch  the  hands.  What  sights  and 
sounds  must  men  and  women,  and  innocent  children  as 
well,  have  been  witnesses  to  in  those  centuries!  The 
mind  shrinks  from  dwelling  on  it. 

One  goes  also  to  the  Palazzo  del  Te  just  without 
the  city  gates,  but  it  need  not  keep  the  traveler  long. 
It  has  no  attractiveness  of  site  or  of  architecture  and  its 
ugly  frescoes,  enormous  in  size  and  uninteresting  in  sub- 
ject, mark  a  stage  in  the  decline  of  art  that  may  well 
weigh  upon  the  spirits.  Memory,  if  it  returns  to  Mantua, 
will  hardly  pause  there ;  but  will  rather  roam  through 
the  untenanted  vastness  of  the  ducal  palace,  or  dally 
beside  the  quiet  reedy  lakes. 

FERRARA. 

"  Ferrara,  su  le  strade  che  Ercole  primo  lanciava 

ad  incontrar  le  Muse  pellegrine  arrivanti, 
e  allinearon  elle  gli  emuli  viali  d*  ottave 

storiando  la  tomba  di  Merlino  profeta, 
come,  o  Ferrara,  bello  ne  la  splendida  ora  d*  aprile 
ama  il  memore  sole  tua  solitaria  pace! " 

—  CARDUCCI.      Alia  Citta  di  Ferrara. 

In  order  not  to  make  a  long  detour  we  took  a  local 
train  directly  across  the  country  to  Ferrara,  lured  by  the 
great  saving  in  distance  which  our  map  showed  this  route 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  31 

to  offer.  Afterward,  however,  we  were  left  in  doubt  as 
to  whether  the  longest  detour  in  express  trains  might  not 
have  taken  less  time  than  we  spent  upon  this  guileless 
little  railway,  which  wriggled  about  across  the  fertile 
unhealthy  plain,  stopping  incessantly  at  hamlets  whose 
appearance  seemed  to  make  its  calling  at  them  utterly 
superfluous.  It  was  a  warm  afternoon,  but  at  least  the 
train  was  not  crowded,  and  we  could  spread  ourselves 
over  all  the  space  it  was  possible  to  occupy  and  monopo- 
lize two  windows  apiece. 

The  shadows  were  beginning  to  grow  long  by  the 
time  we  paused  at  the  station  for  Ferrara,  which  is  far 
enough  away  from  the  town  to  make  arriving  at  it  seem 
an  experience  as  rural  as  those  we  had  just  passed  through. 
We  were  glad  to  get  down  and  take  the  first  little  carriage 
•  in  sight,  while  a  blue-bloused  facchino  went  to  find  our 
bags.  This  immunity  from  lifting  luggage  is  one  of  the 
comfortable  things  about  traveling  here.  There  is  no 
need  to  carry  so  much  as  a  hand-satchel  unless  one 
pleases.  When  you  stop,  a  motion  from  the  window 
of  your  car  brings  a  uniformed  porter  instantly  to  your 
compartment,  who  shoulders  everything  you  possess  and 
precedes  you  to  the  carriage-stand  outside.  There  he 
deposits  it  and  you,  and  if  you  have  anything  registered 
takes  your  check  and  goes  to  find  it  for  you,  while  you 
wait  at  ease  in  the  carriage.  In  the  same  way,  when  you 
are  taking  a  train  a  porter  steps  forward  and  receives 
all  your  belongings  from  the  driver  of  your  carriage,  so 
that  you  may  travel  without  trunks  if  you  please  and 
with  everything  you  need  in  the  form  of  hand-luggage 
with  no  inconvenience  or  burden  to  yourself. 

From  the  railway  station  of  Ferrara  one  drives 
through  broad  avenues  bordered  by  trees  to  the  bound- 
ary of  the  city  and  then  through  a  pretty  parklike 
garden,  straight  to  the  famous  old  ruddy  brick  castle, 


32  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

with  its  four  big  towers  and  its  deep  moat  still  full  of 
water ;  a  fine  example,  and  almost  too  scrupulously  kept 
in  repair,  so  perfectly  preserved  and  restored  is  it.  One 
of  the  buildings  in  the  circle  surrounding  the  castle  at 
a  proper  interval  of  separation,  we  found,  much  to  our 
satisfaction,  to  be  our  albergo,  the  Golden  Star,  and  a 
smiling  young  waiter  assigned  a  room  to  our  use  which 
had  several  windows  looking  out  directly  upon  it.  Being 
but  one  flight  up,  we  shook  our  heads  at  the  prospect 
of  a  night's  sleep  broken  by  street  noises,  but  we  were 
assured  that  this  was  really  the  best  apartment  and  the 
only  one  unoccupied,  and  so  accepted  it,  though  we 
never  afterwards  discovered  evidences  of  a  crowded  state 
of  things  nor  did  we  from  first  to  last  come  upon  more 
than  two  other  people  in  the  dining-room  where  we  took 
our  meals. 

To  this  cool  dining-room,  with  its  floor  of  umber 
tiles,  we  had  but  to  pass  by  a  single  door  from  our  bed- 
room, and  we  liked  the  look  of  it,  arranged  with  small 
tables,  one  of  which,  in  a  corner  next  a  window,  we  chose 
as  exactly  suited  to  our  needs.  Having  refreshed  our- 
selves a  little  we  made  haste  to  save  the  remaining  day- 
light, and  ran  downstairs  and  across  to  the  edge  of  the 
moat.  It  was  such  a  comfort  that  it  was  still  there !  Up 
in  the  castle,  where  once  that  most  brilliant  and  witty- 
court  of  the  Estes  had  its  seat,  are  now  municipal  offices, 
and  impertinent  telegraph  wires  launch  themselves  at 
these  walls  that  have  looked  down  with  disdain  upon 
battle  and  siege.  We  pictured  the  beautiful  and  fasci- 
nating Eleanora  d'  Este,  in  the  great  salon  above,  the 
centre  of  a  willing  homage,  and  in  the  background  the 
sombre  figure  of  Tasso.  And  then,  reaching  a  little 
further  back  into  history,  imagined  the  notorious  Lucre- 
zia  Borgia  arriving,  a  somewhat  battered  bride,  to  the 
husband  at  first  so  reluctant  to  receive  her. 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  33 

At  this  hour  everything  was  so  silent  and  deserted 
that  we  had  hard  work  to  find  any  one  who  could  open 
doors  for  us,  for  we  had  decided  to  penetrate  the  dun- 
geons before  we  slept.  At  length,  however,  an  old  crone 
was  unearthed  whose  appearance  suggested  her  having 
been  handed  down  from  an  earlier  century,  and  with  her 
we  descended  to  the  very  roots  of  the  Lion  Tower,  and 
stood  in  those  two  dismal  cells  where,  out  of  hearing  of 
each  other,  Hugo  d'Este,  in  all  the  splendor  of  his  youth 
and  strength,  and  the  beautiful  but  frail  Parisina  suffered 
worse  than  death  for  the  eight  days  before  they  were  be- 
headed. What,  for  that  terrible  week,  were  the  rumina- 
tions of  the  injured  husband  in  his  gloomy  chambers 
above,  whose  youthful  second  wife  and  idolized  son  had 
wrecked  his  happiness?  The  old  historian  of  Ferrara 
says  his  greatest  grief  was  for  the  faithless  son,  whom  he 
adored,  and  whom  he  had  taken  such  fatal  pains  to  throw 
into  the  society  of  Parisina,  that  the  young  stepmother 
should  love  him  as  dearly  as  he  himself  did.  He  adds 
that  after  Hugo's  execution  the  wretched  father  gave 
himself  up  to  the  wildest  transports  of  agony  and  in  a 
burst  of  vengeance  decreed  that  if  there  were  any  other 
wife  in  high  places  in  Ferrara  known  to  be  guilty  of  the 
same  crime  as  Parisina  she  should  forthwith  suffer  death. 
In  consequence  of  this,  he  avers,  more  than  one  exe- 
cution of  ladies  of  rank  took  place,  over  against  the  castle. 

In  the  semi-darkness  of  these  horrible  dens  filled 
with  odors  unspeakable,  the  idea  of  a  speedy  beheading 
must  have  offered  itself  as  a  release.  We  hastened  up 
into  the  air  with  a  sudden  panic  of  infection  upon  us. 

For  purposes  of  thorough  ventilation  and  purifica- 
tion we  wandered  in  the  open  air  till  dinner-time,  and 
found  entertainment  for  eyes  and  imagination  on  all  sides. 
Close  at  hand  stood  the  superb  old  Lombard  fa9ade  of 
the  cathedral,  with  its  intricate  ornamentation  and  its 


34  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

inexpressibly  alluring  grotesque  beasts  patiently  uphold- 
ing the  weight  of  the  portal.  These  bloodthirsty  griffins 
and  nameless  monsters  exercise  such  a  fascination  upon 
my  companion  that  she  can  with  difficulty  be  torn  from 
their  society  once  they  are  discovered.  Their  hooked 
beaks,  their  terror-striking  expression,  the  unfortunate 
warrior  or  bull  who  usually  writhes  beneath  their  claws, — 
all,  all  are  captivating,  and  many  are  the  portraits  of  them 
that  we  bear  away  with  us. 

Conformably  to  our  misgivings  the  night  was  a  dis- 
turbed one  and  the  ever-recurring  question  presented 
itself  anew,  When  do  Italians  sleep  ?  I  remember  a  trav- 
eler's once  remarking  that  the  population  of  a  certain 
Spanish  city  could  be  divided  into  two  classes,  those 
people  who  went  to  bed  at  four  and  those  who  got  up  at 
three,  and  so,  I  surmise,  is  it  throughout  Italy.  At  no 
hour  of  the  night  does  silence  fold  its  wings  over  an 
Italian  city.  At  two,  at  three,  at  four,  extended  cheerful 
conversations  may  go  on  just  below  your  window,  exu- 
berant youths  pass  down  the  streets,  tuning  their  voices 
to  high-keyed  songs,  wagons  crash  and  rattle  over  the 
stony  pavements,  and  even  the  street-cleaner  finds  some 
one  abroad  to  exchange  compliments  with,  and  they  keep 
it  up  in  stentorian  tones  as  long  as  they  are  within  hear- 
ing of  each  other. 

"Looking  up  the  house  of  Ariosto"  has  a  sound  of 
perfunctory  sight-seeing,  and  yet  it  was  a  charming  little 
episode,  a  rare  pleasure.  There  is  a  seclusion  and  sim- 
plicity about  the  small  edifice  that  make  one  love  it  at 
once,  and  it  had  slipped  from  my  mind  that  the  pretty 
motto,  "Parvased  apta  mihi,"  was  the  one  he  composed 
for  this  retreat  of  his  later  life.  Small  it  is,  for,  like  other 
poets,  his  greatness  did  not  save  him  from  living  and  dy- 
ing poor,  but  it  is  more  attractive  than  many  a  larger 
abode.  There  are  four  rooms  upon  the  ground  floor, 


ON    THE    LOMBARD    PLAIN  35 

two  upon  either  side  of  a  hallway  where  the  sunlight  falls 
through  tiny  panes  of  glass  upon  ancient  woodwork, 
polished  and  deepened  in  color  by  wear  and  time,  and 
beyond  lies  a  little  garden  protected  by  its  high  walls  in 
a  privacy  as  complete  as  that  of  the  interior  of  the  house. 
It  is  fragrant  with  old-fashioned  flowers  of  perhaps  the 
very  same  kinds  that  blossomed  for  the  poet.  A  gentle- 
voiced,  patient  woman  accompanied  us  through  it  and 
seemed  pleased  with  our  pleasure.  As  she  told  us  what 
she  could  of  the  past  of  the  building,  which  indeed  was 
not  much,  she  stooped  and  gathered  a  flower  here  and 
there,  and  she  tried  conscientiously  to  make  the  collection 
include  every  variety  in  the  beds  before  giving  it  to  us; 
so  that  when  we  think  of  Ferrara,  the  memory  of  it  is 
still  sweetened  with  the  odor  of  Ariosto's  flowers  and 
quickened  by  the  warmth  of  his  sunny  garden. 


SOJOURNING   IN   FLORENCE 

Arno  gentil,  fiorenti 
Prati  delle  Cascine, 
Leggiadre  palazzine 
Superbi  monumenti, 

Blanche  ville  ridenti 
Sparse  per  le  colline, 
Vezzose  Florentine 
•*   .    ,..  Dai  musicali  accent! 

Bella  citta  di  fieri 
Piena  di  glorie  sante, 

Cinta  di  eterni  allori, 

Culla  immortal  di  Dante 
Che  P  universe  onori 
T*  amo  come  un  amante  ! 

—  E.  DE  AMICIS.      A  FIRENZE. 

WONDER  if  any  place  in  the 
world  has  the  charm  of  Florence 
to  those  who  love  her.  The  re- 
turn to  her  after  years  is  a  keen 
delight,  and  simply  to  tread  her 
streets,  to  stand  upon  her  bridges, 
gives  a  thrill  so  moving  that  tears 
are  not  far  from  the  surface.  To 
explain  a  statement  thus  verging 
on  the  sentimental,  to  analyze  the  charm  that  is  so 
consummate,  and  at  the  same  time  to  avoid  emotional 

36 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  37 

exaggeration  would  not  be  easy.  I  might  dwell  upon  her 
exquisite  situation,  her  marvelous  treasures  of  art  and 
architecture,  and  the  wonderful,  the  stupendous  history 
of  her  past,  that  seems  to  breathe  life  into  the  very 
stones  of  her  streets  and  to  rise  up  and  envelop  one 
who  passes  along  them;  but  how  could  I  transfer  to 
those  who  have  never  seen  her  what  can  only  be  felt  here 
on  the  spot — and  even  then  not  every  one  falls  a  victim 
to  her  fascinations ! 

I  met  our  good  Doctor  C yesterday  on  the 

famous  corner  of  a  certain  street, — only  to  pass  there  on 
the  smallest  errand  fills  me  with  visions.  And  what  said 
he  ?  Why,  glancing  about  with  a  sort  of  provisional  impa- 
tience, he  remarked  that  it  was  wasting  time  to  be  here 
when  one  might  be  stopping  in  Rome.  I  quoted  to  him 
a  saying  adapted  by  a  friend  of  ours,  cc  See  Naples,  visit 
Rome,  live  in  Florence,"  at  which  he  merely  looked 
scornful  and  changed  the  subject.  And  so  will  I,  and 
tell  the  homely  details  of  our  arrival  and  establishment 
here. 

The  first  night  was  spent  at  the  Anglo-American, 
an  excellent,  quiet  hotel,  a  little  too  far  up  the  river,  but 
with  many  advantages,  including  that  of  an  unusually 
agreeable  proprietor.  This  was  but  a  stepping-stone, 
however,  to  what  we  meant  to  compass,  which  was  to 
become  inmates  in  an  Italian  household  where  we  should 
hear  no  English,  and,  if  possible,  see  something  of  the 
life  of  a  Florentine  family.  We  had  the  address  of  such 
a  place,  and,  searching  it  out  promptly,  found  we  could  be 
received  at  once,  and  what  was  better,  that  we  should  be 
the  only  strangers  in  the  house.  So  we  moved  directly 
and  became  dwellers  in  the  street  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
and  entirely  comfortable  and  contented. 

The  Casa  T comprises  our  handsome,  cordial 

hostess,  a  widow,  and  her  five  children,  from  the  Signo- 


38  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

rina  Maria,  who:  may  be  twenty-three,  'down  to  little 
Pierino,  aged  ten,'  a  beautiful  child,  the  moulding  and 
coloring  of  whose  charming  face  it  is  a  pleasure  to .  gaze 
upon,  though  all  the  family  are  well  endowed  with  good 
looks.  The  two  eldest  are  daughters,  already  busy  teach- 
ing, the  three  youngest,  sons,  still  in  school,  though  rather 
irregularly  so,  for  the  Signora  is  a  somewhat  too  indul- 
gent mother,  it  is  easy  to  see.  As  for  our  surround- 
ings, we  occupy  one  floor  of  an '  old  palazzoy  which,  as 
every  one  knows,  is  the  custom  here  where  a  family 
does  not  have  an  entire  house  to  itself,  the  different  floors 
being  let  to  different  people,  and  the  entrance  and  stair- 
way serving  as  common  property.  Our  stairs,  by  the 
way,  are  of  evident  antiquity ;  the  lift  of  each  one  is  quite 
beyond  the  altitude  of  ease,  and  the  tread  is  a  ponderous 
slab  of  stone,  worn  to  a  sort  of  bevel  at  the  edge,  by  the 
passage  of  centuries  of  steps,  no  doubt,  giving  one  a 
slightly  giddy  feeling  as  of  pitching  forward  while  one 
descends. 

On  our  ground  floor  is  a  large  hall,  now  the  prop- 
erty of  a  society,  which  keeps  much  gaudy  regalia  there ; 
the  next  floor  has  a  more  imposing  front  door  than  ours, 
and  the  dwellers  therein  appear  to  keep  rather  finer  com- 
pany. I  observed  that  carriages  bring  gayly  dressed  people 
to  it,  and  yesterday  I  saw  an  example  of  a  curious  and 
rather  undesirable  fashion,  fallen  out  of  use  in  America, 
but  evidently  still  in  full  force  here,  that  of  dressing 
sisters  exactly  alike,  so  that  they  suggest  a  brood  of  fledg- 
lings. In  this  case  three  brunettes,  ranging  perhaps 
between  twenty-eight  and  thirty-five,  with  fatigued,  indif- 
ferent faces,  appeared  in  three  showy  gowns  of  what  is 
known  as  electric  blue,  with  three  hats  of  bizarre  shape 
and  bewildering  variety  of  color.  The  conspicuousness 
of  this  effect  thrice  repeated  seemed  to  render  the  mode 
all  the  more  objectionable. 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  39 

However,  no  matter  what  elegance  stops  at  the  first 
floor,  we  rest  satisfied  that  our  own  secondo  piano  is  the 
really  choice  location,  as  so  much  lighter  and  more  airy, 
nor  do  we  hear  even  an  echo  of  the  high  life  below  stairs 
or  the  proceedings  of  the  humbler  menage  above  us,  the 
thickness  of  the  stone  floors  preventing  all  discomfort 
from  -noise,  that  great  objection  to  living  in  such  close 
proximity  to  others  in  our  own  less  thoroughly  con- 
structed houses.  There  are  many  unlooked-for  possibili- 
ties of  space  and  privacy  in  old  buildings  such  as  these, 
perhaps  once  the  centres  of  a  wealthy  patriarchal  life,  but 
now  fallen  to  the  uses  of  a  humbler  housekeeping.  The 
effort  of  the  present  day  is  to  so  plan  a  house  that  every 
foot  of  space  has  its  immediate  use,  and  thus  to  the  prac- 
tical and  economical  American  the  big  corridors  and  lofty 
rooms,  which  perhaps  serve  merely  as  separation  or  en- 
trance to  certain  others,  and  often  enjoyed  by  families  in 
very  small  circumstances,  are  a  fresh  surprise.  Yet  this 
space,  which  may  be  regarded  as  superfluous,  saves  the 
necessity  of  all  occupations,  sounds  and  odors  being 
shared  at  once,  so  to  speak,  by  all  the  members  of  a  fam- 
ily, and  one  is  apt  sooner  or  later  to  incline  toward  drop- 
ping the  compact  as  a  standard  of  desirability,  and 
adopting  that  of  the  spacious,  as  affording  much  advan- 
tage of  restfulness  and  quiet. 

For  ourselves,  we  have  but  one  room  between  us,  it 
being  so  large  that  we  find  it  easy  to  regard  it  as  equal  to 
the  two  we  at  first  demanded.  Its  stone  floor  is  covered 
with  a  sort  of  enamel,  laid  on  to  represent  a  granite 
centre  tastefully  relieved  by  a  green  border!  Rugs  are 
spread  beside  the  beds  and  tables.  We  have  two  iron 
bedsteads  with  little  stands  beside  them  bearing  tall 
candlesticks,  two  broad  washstands  with  a  towel-rack 
between  as  big  as  a  donkey,  a  dressing-table,  a  chest  of 
drawers,  an  extensive  wardrobe,  a  roomy  table  for  books 


40  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

and  writing  materials,  and  several  chairs.  But  perhaps 
the  most  important  piece  of  furniture  is  a  tall,  circular 
earthenware  stove,  much  embellished  and  surmounted  by 
a  Parian  bust  swathed  in  white  gauze.  The  effect  of  it 
is  so  imposing  that  when  it  is  lighted  we  almost  seem  to 
be  deriving  warmth  from  a  historic  monument.  But  it 
is  not  often  brought  into  use.  Of  a  chill  evening  Gina 
brings  us  each  a  cassettina,  a  little  object  that  in  shape 
might  be  a  jewel-casket  somewhat  worn  and  blackened, 
with  handles  like  an  old-fashioned  basket.  This  is  filled 
with  hot  charcoal  and  packed  with  ashes,  and  used  as 
a  footstool  is  most  comforting.  When  Gina  comes  to 
announce  dinner  she  catches  them  up  and  carrying  them 
out  to  the  sala  deposits  them  under  the  table,  that  we 
may  dine  without  resting  our  feet  upon  the  frigid  stone 
floor.  All  the  furniture  mentioned,  however,  does  not 
crowd  our  apartment,  in  which  there  is  plenty  of  space 
besides.  It  is  lofty  enough  to  make  two  stories  of  the 
common  height,  and  has  a  beamed  ceiling  painted  and 
decorated  in  blue  and  white.  There  are  also  two  great 
arched  casement  windows,  furnished  with  outside  and  in- 
side shutters,  and  large  enough  for  a  procession  to  march 
through.  High  on  the  wall  over  them  are  huge  yellow 
canopies. 

Gina,  the  little  maid  who  waits  upon  us,  is  most 
assiduous.  Instead  of  walking,  she  runs  at  full  speed  to 
do  our  bidding.  Although  almost  overcome  by  bashful- 
ness  in  our  presence,  she  yearns  to  serve  us  and  invents 
things  to  do  for  us.  She  is  grieved  if  she  cannot  have 
all  our  various  garments  to  brush  and  our  shoes  to  polish 
every  day,  and  she  bids  us  good-night  each  evening  in  a 
little  set  speech  in  which  we  are  first  implored  to  permit 
her  to  assist  us  further  if  possible,  and  then  commended 
to  the  Powers  for  protection  and  blessing  during  the  in- 
terval till  she  sees  us  again. 


FLORENCE.     FOUNTAIN  OF  BACCHUS. 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  41 

When  we  are  ready  for  coffee  in  the  morning  we 
pull  a  long,  heavy  bell-cord  suspended  from  the  upper 
regions,  and  in  a  few  moments  breakfast  is  prepared  for 
us  in  the  adjoining  salon,  where  we  have  it  alone,  the 
family  being  already  dispersed  to  its  various  occupations, 
after  which  we  go  forth,  perhaps  first  for  a  walk  and  then 
to  study  the  galleries,  keeping  the  freshest  hours  of  the 
day  for  the  pictures.  To  these  peaceful  and  congenial 
haunts  we  carry  our  handbooks  and  wander  about  or  sit 
on  soft  divans  studying  at  our  ease.  At  noon  we  go 
home,  and  the  Signora  lunches  with  us.  The  food  is 
good  and  delicately  cooked,  and  there  is  only  too  much 
anxiety  that  there  shall  be  a  choice  of  dishes  to  suit  our 
taste.  Luncheon,  or  colazione  as  it  is  called,  will  perhaps 
consist  of  the  following  courses:  first,  macaroni,  then 
shirred  eggs,  cutlets  with  fried  potatoes,  fruit,  nuts,  etc. 
Crisp  rolls  and  good  wine  accompany  the  meal.  Bread, 
by  the  way,  is  an  article  upon  which  American  and  Ital- 
ian tastes  differ.  The  white  flour  rolls  which  are  taken 
for  us  do  not  find  acceptance  with  the  rest  of  the  family, 
who  prefer  cuts  from  the  big  loaf,  darker,  coarser  in  tex- 
ture, and  unsalted.  Butter  is  a  comparatively  unim- 
portant article  of  diet;  we  do  not  see  it  excepting  at  our 
early  coffee  and  then  it  is  a  concession  to  foreign  taste. 
It  is  sometimes  served  with  cheese  and  biscuit  as  a  course 
at  colazione. 

The  afternoon  is  left  for  more  diversified  occupations, 
wandering  through  the  old  streets  to  verify  historic  sites, 
exploring  churches,  and  driving  to  the  suburbs.  At 
seven  the  whole  family  is  assembled,  and  we  dine  in  a  big 
sala  in  another  part  of  the  establishment.  Here  a  lively 
conversation  goes  on,  and  the  harassed  Americans  follow 
what  they  can  of  it,  but  as  the  young  people  talk  with 
fearful  rapidity  and  in  general  at  least  three  at  a  time,  it 
is  a  breathless  pursuit.  It  is  said  that  one  of  the  daugh- 


4i  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

ters  speaks  a  little  English,  but  if  so  she  is  too  shy  to 
try  it.  We,  on  the  contrary,  plunge  into  the  conversa- 
tion in  the  most  reckless  way.  When  we  get  into  a  hope- 
less entanglement  the  whole  family  rushes  impetuously 
to  our  assistance,  guessing  at  what  we  wish  to  say  or  sup- 
plying missing  words.  At  this  meal  the  usual  courses  of 
meat  and  vegetables  follow  one  another,  but  pastry  and 
sweets  are  uncommon ;  instead  of  the  latter,  fresh  fruits, 
figs  and  nuts  are  served.  All  the  children  drink  wine 
freely,  down  to  the  youngest,  but  add  a  good  deal  of 
water  to  it.  The  wine  is  brought  to  the  house  at  inter- 
vals and  poured  into  a  tall  red  jar,  a  true  Greek  pithos  in 
shape,  which  stands  in  the  hall.  From  this  it  is  drawn 
into  decanters  for  the  table.  Many  other  details  of  house- 
keeping differ  from  ours;  things  which  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  see  done  in  the  house  are  sent  out,  and  vice 
versa.  For  example,  the  clothes  are  taken  away  to  be 
washed  but  brought  back  to  be  starched  and  ironed, 
and  fastidious  housekeepers  often  have  the  macaroni 
made  at  home,  where,  upon  a  large  table,  you  may  see  a 
vast,  unbroken  sheet  of  it  spread  out,  reduced  by  tireless 
labor  to  the  thinness  of  paper.  In  a  small  family  in 
Florence  a  cook  receives  in  the  neighborhood  of  five 
dollars  a  month ;  a  waitress  about  three ;  if,  however,  the 
family  that  employs  the  latter  is  a  fashionable  one,  and 
she  is  also  capable  of  acting  in  the  capacity  of  lady's 
maid,  she  may  even  demand  ten  dollars.  The  rent  of  an 
apartment  such  as  this,  of  fourteen  rooms,  in  a  locality 
convenient  and  good  but  not  fashionable,  is  upwards  of  a 
hundred  and  sixty  dollars  a  year.  In  that  quarter  of  the 
city  where  foreign  residents  most  do  congregate,  and  the 
buildings  are  more  modern  and  less  interesting,  rents  are 
much  higher. 

While  upon  domestic  subjects  I  must  revert  for  a 
moment  to  our  little  maid,  Gina,  of  whom  we  have  been 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  43 

growing  quite  fond.  It  appears  that  she  is  the  centre  of 
a  little  drama  of  love  and  jealousy,  in  consequence  of 
which  we  are  to  lose  her  this  week.  Nunzia,  the  servant 
who  preceded  her,  was  incorrigibly  dishonest,  and  in  the 
end  the  Signora  was  obliged  to  dismiss  her.  She  went 
away  wrathful,  and  has  now  managed  to  stir  up  trouble 
for  her  innocent  successor.  Gina  is  a  contadina  and  lived 
with  her  parents  in  a  little  village  not  far  from  Florence. 
Not  being  very  strong  she  was  unable  to  accompany  her 
brothers  and  sisters  to  their  work  in  the  fields,  and  her 
part,  therefore,  was  to  remain  alone  at  home,  attending  to 
the  indoor  affairs  of  the  family.  This  she  found  very 
lonely  and  so  preferred  to  earn  her  living  as  housemaid 
here,  where  she  has  a  good  home  and  labor  not  beyond 
her  strength.  Gina,  however,  has  a  lover,  and  to  work 
upon  his  jealousy  became  the  aim  of  the  wicked  Nunzia. 
She  therefore  wrote  to  him  in  a  spirit  of  friendly  warn- 
ing, and  told  him  that  his  Gina  had  an  admirer  in 
Florence,  which  was  the  reason  she  was  so  much  fonder  of 

staying  with  Signora  T than  of  remaining  at  home. 

This  terrible  accusation  fired  his  Italian  heart  and  he  has 
written  to  say  that  Gina  must  return.  If  she  persists  in 
staying  away  he  will  conclude  that  she  no  longer  loves 
him  and  renounce  her.  At  this  Gina's  parents  are  in  a 
state  of  mind,  for  the  lover  is  a  merchant,  comfortably 
off,  and  a  most  advantageous  match.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  Gina  has  a  sincere  affection  for  her  fidanzato ; 
indeed,  she  may  well  be  devoted  to  him  and  yet  prefer 
to  earn  her  trousseau  here ;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  when 
she  leaves  to  spend  Holy  Week  at  home,  as  is  the 
custom  here,  she  will  not  return  and  we  shall  miss  her. 
Another  member  of  the  family  of  whom  I  have  not 
yet  made  mention  is  a  small,  white,  curly  dog,  the 
property  of  Maria.  Stellina  is  her  name,  and  she  is  a 
dog  of  marked  personality.  There  is  obstinacy  in  the 


44  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

inflexible  curve  of  her  tail ;  there  is  cynicism  in  the  corner 
of  her  sharp  little  eye,  and  the  air  with  which  she 
patrols  the  front  hall  is  nothing  short  of  domineering. 
She  is  devoted  to  her  young  mistress,  but  chary  of  her 
favors  to  outsiders,  and  though  she  occasionally  accom- 
panies Maria  to  see  us  in  the  evening,  she  allows  no 
familiarity  from  us  but  sits  by  in  dignified  silence  while 
the  visit  lasts  and  retires  sedately  with  Maria  at  its 
close,  no  blandishments  inducing  her  to  remain  with  us 
or  to  unbend  while  in  our  presence  in  the  smallest  frolic. 
In  short,  it  will  be  seen  that  reserve  and  sobriety  are 
features  of  her  character,  and  yet  Stellina  is  not  invulnera- 
ble ;  there  is  a  weak  spot  in  her  armor — a  subject  that 
is  unendurable  to  her.  Naturally,  the  part  of  good 
breeding  would  be  to  avoid  this  painful  topic,  and  yet  such 
is  human  nature  that  we  cannot  refrain  from  bringing  it 
up  occasionally  just  to  see  her  cool  superiority  ruffled, 
her  haughty  indifference  broken  down.  It  appears  that 
some  time  ago  another  dog,  by  name  Diana,  absorbed 
part  of  the  affections  of  the  family.  Of  this  rival  she 
was  madly  jealous,  and,  though  Diana  has  long  been 
dead,  the  emotions  she  awakened  in  the  breast  of 
Stellina  are  as  lively  as  ever,  and  I  confess  it  is  an 
experiment  approaching  vivisection  in  cruelty  to  play 
upon  the  sensibilities  of  this  tiny  animal,  as  I  have 
owned  that  we  now  and  then  do.  On  a  first  mention  of 
Diana's  name  Stellina  sits  up  straight,  her  little  body 
stiffens,  her  eye  flashes  and  she  seems  to  make  an  effort 
to  keep  her  feelings  well  in  hand.  But  it  is  useless ;  at 
a  second  she  loses  all  control  of  herself  and  flies  into  a 
transport  of  anger  and  fury,  in  which  she  darts  wildly 
about,  apparently  looking  for  the  hated  being  whose 
presence  she  dreads.  She  searches  in  every  hole  and 
corner,  barking  frantically ;  she  roots  under  the 
furniture ;  she  even  scratches  at  doors  and  listens  at  the 


FLORENCE.   VIA  DI  BELVEDERE. 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  45 

crack  underneath,  ever  and  anon  flying  back  to  her  mis- 
tress* side,  lest  in  her  momentary  absence  Diana  should 
have  usurped  her  place.  It  is  a  good  while  before  she 
can  be  calmed  on  these  occasions,  and  for  some  time 
thereafter  she  is  nervous  and  uneasy.  She  glances  rest- 
lessly about,  emits  a  short  yelp  now  and  then,  and  as  she 
gradually  grows  quieter  gazes  up  at  Maria  with  pleading 
eyes  and  a  low  whine,  which  tells  her  suffering  so 
speakingly  that  we  one  and  all  resolve  not  again  to  be 
the  wicked  means  of  her  torture. 

The  weather,  which  has  been  capricious,  is  now 
mild  and  warm  again,  and  out-of-door  explorations  are 
more  tempting.  The  flower  market  is  a  very  pleasant 
resort  on  the  days  when  it  is  held.  It  takes  place  at  the 
Mercato  Nuovo  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  a  fine  structure, 
in  form  an  open  square,  the  roof  of  which  is  supported 
on  columns.  To  stray  into  it  is  to  find  the  air  loaded 
with  fragrance  and  thousands  of  cut  flowers  lying  in 
heaps  for  sale,  their  tempting  masses  offered  so  cheaply 
as  to  fill  one  with  the  desire  to  carry  them  all  away  at 
once.  The  next  day,  however,  all  will  have  been 
changed,  and  the  Mercato  Nuovo  have  perhaps  become 
a  depot  for  the  sale  of  straw  hats.  In  the  centre  of  its 
stone  floor  is  a  disk  of  white  marble,  quite  inconspicuous, 
and  yet  in  the  past  it  must  often  have  supported  keen 
misery  and  mortification ;  it  is  nothing  less  than  the  spot 
upon  which  bankrupts  were  obliged  to  sit  exposed  to 
public  humiliation.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  even  in 
Florence  that  usage  passed  out  of  date  long  since,  and 
now  I  fear  too  little  obloquy  is  attached  to  failure  to 
meet  business  obligation  here  as  elsewhere.  Not  far 
from  this  spot  sits  a  merchant  presiding  over  a  tub 
nearly  full  of  yellow  lupine  seeds  in  salt  water,  a  delicacy 
only  to  be  appreciated  by  local  palates,  and  failing  to 
tempt  us  even  upon  the  warm  recommendation  of  the 


46  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

vendor.  At  this  point  we  emerge  from  the  market- 
place, passing  the  great  bronze  boar  who  presides  over 
its  fountain.  From  here  it  is  but  a  step  to  the  Piazza 
della  Signoria,  the  core  of  the  city's  present  life  and  past 
history.  There  towers  the  old  town  hall,  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  that  superb  pile,  with  its  nobly  mounting  tower, 
old  enough  to  have  looked  down  upon  a  long  succession 
of  events. 

What  brilliant  and  glittering  spectacles  has  it  wit- 
nessed, what  noisy  and  picturesque  festivals  presided 
over !  And  yet  those  associations  that  most  haunt  the 
memory  are  the  terrible  ones  —  the  cruelty,  the  torture, 
the  agony  that  it  has  witnessed.  Strange  and  dreadful 
memories  these,  and  yet,  perhaps,  in  the  midst  of  such 
recollections  one's  eyes  light  upon  an  object  close  by 
which  starts  another  train  of  thought.  If  in  this  place 
human  life  has  been  held  cheaply,  how  reverently  has 
beauty  been  regarded,  for  here  stands  a  famous  statue 
upon  its  pedestal  of  elaborate  workmanship,  exquisite 
and  fragile  carved  marble,  and  here  it  has  stood  in  the 
open  air  for  three  hundred  years,  perfectly  accessible  to 
all  the  mischievously  disposed  urchins  of  the  city,  and  yet 
it  is  unbroken. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  this  piazza  cluster  memora- 
ble buildings,  and  streets  lead  from  it  to  history  and 
romance.  Much  has  been  torn  away,  sacrificed  to  the  too 
progressive  spirit  of  the  modern  Florentines ;  but  though 
one  must  not  insist  that  they  shall  remain  in  mouldering, 
unsanitary  buildings  for  the  sake  of  pilgrims  in  search 
of  the  picturesque,  they  might  have  been  less  uncom- 
promising in  the  fury  of  thoroughness  with  which  they 
have  wiped  away  whole  quarters.  We,  for  instance, 
are  too  late  to  know  the  pictorial  decay  of  the  Mercato 
Vecchio,  but  photographs  not  many  years  old  show  us 
that  delight  of  artists  as  it  then  was,  and  we  cannot  but 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  47 

regard  it  with  a  fond  regret.  To-day,  as  the  Piazza 
Vittorio  Emanuele,  nothing  could  exceed  its  substantial 
propriety,  but  its  charm  is  gone. 

Within  its  precincts  we  have  watched  with  much 
curiosity  the  working  of  one  of  the  institutions  of  the 
Italy  of  to-day,  the  periodical  lottery.  It  was  quite  an 
exciting  scene.  The  great  square  began  to  fill  at  five  in 
the  evening,  and  gradually  it  became  black  with  a  solid 
mass  of  thousands  of  people  facing  the  pavilion  where 
the  drawing  was  to  take  place.  It  looked  as  though 
most  of  the  population  of  Florence  had  assembled.  All 
purchasers  of  chances  held  their  tickets  in  their  hands 
and  had  supplied  themselves  with  pencils,  so  that  shortly 
something  very  like  a  gigantic  game  of  lotto  began. 
Each  ticket  had  fifteen  figures  printed  upon  it  and  as 
fast  as  a  number  was  drawn  and  exposed,  if  it  corre- 
sponded with  the  one  upon  your  list,  you  at  once 
marked  it  off,  the  first  card  filled  taking  the  prize. 
This,  it  will  be  seen,  keeps  everybody  eager  and  excited, 
with  the  hope  of  winning,  till  the  last  moment.  The 
person  next  me  had  all  but  five  numbers  marked  when 
the  winner  was  announced.  This  drawing  proved  a 
short  one,  occupying  only  about  twenty-five  minutes. 
At  intervals  some  portion  of  the  crowd  swayed  and 
shouted,  but  when  at  last  one  man  had  filled  his  card, 
it  seemed  somehow  to  be  communicated  to  the  whole 
mass  at  once,  and  a  general  hubbub  took  place  for  a 
short  time  while  the  winner  made  his  way  to  the  plat- 
form to  receive  his  thousand  lire,  a  goodly  sum  to  write 
or  speak  but  in  reality  amounting  to  something  less 
than  two  hundred  dollars  in  American  money.  The 
crowd  began  to  flow  away  through  the  streets  leading 
out  of  the  piazza,  and  we  watched  the  winner  walk  off, 
a  well-to-do  looking  man  of  middle  age,  leading  a  sturdy 
little  boy  by  the  hand,  numerous  stragglers  skipping 


48  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

about  and  before  them  to  have  a  look  at  the  hero  of  the 
occasion.  It  is  said  that  the  lottery  is  an  important 
source  of  government  revenue,  and  the  whole  spectacle 
is  a  rather  uncivilized  one  and  an  undignified  method  for 
a  government  to  resort  to,  as,  of  course,  it  impoverishes 
the  poor  and  ignorant  of  the  people  most. 

With  the  happy  inconsequence  of  those  who,  when 
in  Rome,  enjoy  doing  as  the  Romans  do,  a  day  that  begins 
in  the  shadow  of  the  sanctuary  may  end  in  the  glare  of 
the  theatre,  and  so  one  morning  we  dutifully  carried  our 
guide-books  and  our  Ruskin  to  Santa  Croce,  there  to 
look  at  some  celebrated  frescoes  which  are  very  hard  to 
see,  and  only  to  be  puzzled  out  early  in  the  forenoon  of 
a  day  when  the  sun  rises  clear.  The  weather  is  so 
variable  that  this  is  not  an  easy  condition  to  secure,  and 
we  grew  rather  cross  with  straining  our  eyes  to  discern 
almost  invisible  objects,  for  the  sun  would  come  out  for 
ten  seconds  and  then  retire  behind  a  cloud  for  ten 
minutes,  and  at  last  we  gave  it  up  for  that  day  and 
walked  down  the  nave,  as  directed  by  Mr.  Ruskin  to  do, 
so  as  to  inspect  a  certain  one  of  two  funereal  tablets  in 
the  floor.  There  lies  a  forgotten  worthy,  whose  features 
have  long  since  been  trodden  into  smooth  blankness  by 
the  feet  of  careless  worshipers,  but  three  folds  in  his  cap 
remain,  and  likewise  the  tassels  of  his  marble  cushion ; 
and  if  you  can  see  why  these,  in  comparison  with  the 
adjoining  tablet,  are  so  supremely  right,  you  are  worthy 
to  study  the  art  of  Florence;  otherwise,  says  Mr. 
Ruskin,  you  may  as  well  depart  from  the  city  at  once,  as 
nothing  here  will  ever  do  you  any  good. 

My  two  companions  refused  to  lend  themselves  to 
these  pious  investigations,  and  railed  at  Mr.  Ruskin  and 
at  those  who  weakly  submit  to  his  tyrannous  exactions ; 
but  that  dear  man's  testiness  and  petulance  should  but 
elicit  an  indulgent  smile,  while  for  all  his  great  and 


FLORENCE.      VICOLO  D  ORO. 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  49 

endearing  qualities  there  is  room  for  love  and  reverence, 
and  one  likes  to  try  sometimes  to  put  oneself  in  his 
mood  and  see  with  his  eyes.  Determined,  therefore,  on 
behaving  with  decorum,  I  was  just  beginning  to  discover 
the  immense  superiority  of  the  folds  and  tassels,  when, 
oh,  horror!  I  found  I  was  examining  the  wrong  ones. 
Conceive  my  feelings.  Humbled  and  chastened,  I 
meekly  left  the  church  and  repaired  to  the  Pitti  Palace, 
where  there  were  pictures  in  the  full  light  of  day  with  the 
names  of  the  artists  upon  the  frames,  so  that  one  could 
not  make  the  mistake  of  admiring  the  wrong  ones. 

On  the  evening  of  this  day  we  were  induced  to  go 
to  the  theatre,  to  see  a  wonderful  spectacular  ballet. 
We  understood  that  it  was  to  come  on  at  the  beginning 
of  the  performance,  but  found  on  arriving  that  we  must 
first  listen  to  a  mediocre  little  opera  in  two  long  acts.  The 
singing  was  not  very  good,  and  it  was  surprising  to  find 
the  audience  no  more  discriminating  than  one  in  an 
American  town  might  have  been.  It  did  not  appear  to 
matter  whether  the  singer  was  exactly  on  the  key  ;  as 
long  as  the  note  was  loud  enough  and  long  enough  she 
was  applauded  to  the  echo.  The  orchestra  was  full  and 
good,  and  the  theatre  a  large  one,  but  less  well  fur- 
nished and  handsomely  finished  than  might  have  been 
expected.  The  opera  at  last  drew  to  a  tragic  close,  and 
after  the  heroine  and  her  lover  had  been  satisfactorily 
stabbed,  and  the  husband  had  gone  mad,  the  curtain 
rose  again  on  the  famous  ballet,  and  truly  there  could 
scarcely  have  been  a  more  bewildering  display.  The 
immense  stage  was  one  blaze  of  light  and  glitter  and 
appeared  to  extend  into  infinite  distance.  This  effect 
was  cleverly  carried  out  by  having  children  to  rep- 
resent the  people  in  the  background  and  on  the  heights, 
thus  aiding  the  perspective. 

One   could   hardly   imagine   anything   prettier   or 


50  WAYFARERS   IN    ITALY 

more  captivating  than  the  first  effect  until  the  second 
part,  when  the  three  hundred  dancers  came  out  in  white 
wigs  and  the  daintiest  court  costumes,  of  course  short- 
tened  to  the  necessary  brevity.  The  color  effects  were 
managed  marvelously,  swaying  lines  or  masses  of  pale 
pink,  intertwined  with  others  of  pale-blue  and  silver, 
sea-green  and  gold,  snow-white  or  shaded  lavender.  It 
was  really  enchanting.  The  premiere  danseuse  was  young 
and  pretty,  with  a  charming  slim  figure,  and  was 
evidently  a  great  favorite.  At  the  right  moment,  when 
she  had  nearly  danced  her  little  feet  off  and  her  glossy 
hair  out  of  curl,  there  arose  a  murmur  in  the  audience 
and  a  procession  appeared,  bearing  the  floral  tributes. 

I  thought  I  had  seen  tributes  of  important  size 
before,  but  these  were  colossal,  and  their  magnitude  and 
number  became  absurd.  It  took  a  round  dozen  of  men 
to  carry  them  in  and  heave  them  upon  the  stage.  There 
were  easels  ten  feet  high,  stars  of  prodigious  magnitude, 
wreaths  that  could  hardly  be  lifted,  with  many  other 
devices  of  graduated  size,  and  there  they  stood,  disposed 
in  a  towering  semicircle,  as  a  background  to  another 
sprightly  passeul,  executed  in  the  midst  of  the  vocifer- 
ous delight  of  the  audience.  Such  occasions  as  these 
we  indulge  in  rarely,  for  the  fatigue  of  the  late  hours 
which  are  the  custom  here  is  apt  to  interfere  with  the 
next  day's  pleasure.  Beginning  at  nine,  one  is  usually 
kept  out  of  bed  till  two. 

One  of  the  charms  of  Florence,  as  every  one  knows, 
is  the  beautiful  variety  of  villas  for  which  its  situation  is 
so  favorable.  Lying  in  a  somewhat  narrow  valley,  which 
it  nearly  fills,  its  lovely  forest-like  park  extending  itself 
along  the  river  beyond,  the  wooded  declivities  of  Fiesole 
are  on  the  south  and  the  more  gradual  slopes  of  the 
Oltrarno  opposite.  Little  steam  trams  bustle  out  into 
the  country,  making  it  possible  to  have  a  very  accessible 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  51 

home  beyond  the  city's  noise,  or  if  one  desires  a  more 
perfect  seclusion  he  may  be  as  peacefully  retired  among 
gently  rolling  hills  clothed  with  vines  and  olives  as  he 
pleases,  and  yet  within  easy  driving  distance. 

Between  two  villas  we  visit,  occupied  by  American 
friends,  it  is  hard  to  choose.  One  has  a  location  of  the 
latter  sort,  and  dreams  away  the  days  among  the  sweetest 
of  peaceful  outlooks  over  cultivated  rounded  hills. 
The  rooms  are  large  enough  for  spaciousness  but  not 
for  empty  vastness,  and  the  house  has  been  furnished 
gradually  with  beautiful  and  tasteful  things  found  in 
Florence.  A  certain  simplicity  prevails;  nowhere  is 
there  any  overcrowding  of  furniture  or  overloading  of 
ornament.  It  was  the  abode  of  a  famous  family,  and  the 
little  chapel  which  forms  a  wing  adds  greatly  to  its 
attractiveness.  On  a  certain  festa  of  the  Virgin  Mary 
there  is  a  service  in  it  to  which  the  neighboring  contadini 
flock,  and  they  are  allowed  to  prepare  it  and  deck  it 
with  flowers,  according  to  their  own  ideas,  which  they 
do  with  the  utmost  reverence  and  care.  This  year  a 
part  of  the  preparation  was  to  cover  the  whole  pavement 
and  the  path  outside  for  some  distance  with  a  carpet  of 
rose  petals. 

The  other  villa  of  which  I  spoke  is  on  the  south 
side  of  Florence,  and  from  the  little  tram  which  plies 
below  it  you  may  walk  up  easily  in  a  few  minutes.  It 
is  where  the  first  hills  rise  toward  the  heights  of  Fiesole, 
and  the  suburbs  of  San  Gervasio  and  Maiano  lie  along  the 
heights.  This  villa  also  must  have  had  a  history,  though 
the  details  of  it,  I  believe,  are  not  known,  for  it  was  a 
Medici  house,  and  among  the  frescoes  of  its  open  court 
it  is  easy  to  recognize  Lorenzo's  ugly  face.  Against  the 
wall  is  a  fine  old  well,  and  through  the  hall  beyond  you 
may  see  out  into  a  sunny  garden.  Beautiful  views 
spread  themselves  before  every  window —  the  city,  the 


52  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

river,  the  mountains — and  at  the  back  a  group  of  fine  old 
cypresses  brood  over  the  lawn.  There  is  a  large  open 
belvedere  upon  the  roof,  and  in  the  four  corners  of  it 
stand  four  great  red  jars,  large  enough  to  conceal  the 
thieves  of  Ali  Baba.  To  these  the  water  is  conveyed  that 
is  afterward  distributed  over  the  house.  At  the  foot  of 
the  hill  upon  one  side  stands  Vernon  Lee's  house, 
marked  by  its  one  great  stone-pine,  which  stretches  its 
circular  shady  parasol  over  the  little  enclosure. 

Close  by  is  one  of  the  rarest  domains  near  Florence, 
and  it  is  for  sale.  On  a  commanding  point  of  the  hill 
stands  its  villa,  upon  a  wide  graveled  terrace,  solid  and 
spacious,  and  I  am  told  handsome  and  in  excellent 
order  within.  From  it  stretch  down  to  the  lower  ground 
on  the  west  acres  of  shady  woods  and  open  glades, 
among  which  paths  wind,  to  be  sure,  but  otherwise  the 
look  of  an  almost  untouched  bit  of  nature  is  preserved. 
There  one  may  make  discoveries  among  the  tall  grass 
and  tangled  vines  of  some  bit  of  ancient  stonework, 
some  fountain  or  well  now  overgrown,  and  there  birds 
live  and  nest  in  a  security  undisturbed.  And  all  this 
dream  of  beauty,  with  its  comfort  and  accessibility,  may 
be  bought  for  twenty-five  thousand  dollars.  When  one 
thinks  of  a  prosaic  city  house,  with  a  few  feet  of  clipped 
lawn,  for  which  more  than  this  is  demanded,  it  seems 
almost  incredible.  Within  sight  of  it  is  another  little 
estate,  also  for  sale,  at  less  than  half  the  price  of  the  first, 
beguiling  to  a  somewhat  humbler  aspiration  and  a  shorter 
purse.  This  lies  lower  than  its  lordly  neighbor,  but  still 
sufficiently  elevated  for  a  vista  which  is  the  perfection  of 
tranquil  loveliness,  ending  with  the  gently  folding  curves 
of  hills  that  close  in  the  distance.  Besides  the  comfort- 
able house,  with  its  broad  front,  there  is  a  little  podere  or 
farm,  which  is  worked  upon  the  tenant  system  which 
prevails  here  and  which  makes  Tuscany  the  province  of 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  53 

all  Italy  where  one  would  choose  to  live  in  the  country, 
because  there  is  less  misery  among  the  peasantry.  The 
system  is  explained  as  follows,  by  some  one  who  knows 
more  than  I  do  of  it : 

"  The  mezzeria  or  metayer  system  generally  prevail- 
ing in  Tuscany  induces  a  patriarchal  feeling  between 
landlord  and  peasant  which  is  very  pleasant  to  see,  but 
is  not  conducive  to  agricultural  progress  or  a  good  thing 
for  the  landlord.  He  pays  all  the  taxes  to  the  govern- 
ment, which  are  enormous ;  he  provides  the  house-rent 
free,  and  keeps  it  in  repair ;  he  buys  the  oxen,  cows  and 
horses,  bearing  half  the  loss  if  they  die,  and,  of  course, 
getting  half  the  profit  when  they  are  sold.  The  peasant 
gives  his  labour,  the  landlord  gives  the  land  and  the 
capital,  and  the  proceeds  are  divided  between  them.  In 
bad  years  the  landlord  advances  corn  to  his  peasants, 
which  they  repay,  when  they  can,  in  wine,  oil,  beans,  etc. 
Where  there  is  a  large  family  of  young  children  the 
peasant  sometimes  accumulates  a  load  of  debt  that  crip- 
ples him  for  years ;  in  rare  instances  the  landlord  turns 
him  out  at  six  months'  notice,  and  puts  another  family 
on  the  farm  ;  but,  as  a  rule,  the  peasants  remain  for 
generations  on  the  same  property,  and  always  talk  of 
themselves  as  the  gente  [people]  of  their  landlord." — 
Janet  Ross,  Italian  Sketches. 

About  and  beyond  the  villas  I  have  mentioned  lie 
endless  possibilities  for  driving  or  rambling,  for  it  is  a 
region  well  nigh  inexhaustible.  One  such  excursion  we 
took  after  having  arranged  it  telescopically,  so  to  speak, 
as  our  eyes  ranged  over  the  surrounding  country  from 
the  top  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  tower  one  morning.  As 
we  leaned  upon  the  parapet  of  that  commanding  summit 
two  castles  that  had  long  tantalized  us  in  their  green  dis- 
tance seemed  to  beckon  us  irresistibly  and  we  began  to 
talk  to  the  custodian  about  them.  Soon  we  had  made  our 


54  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

plans  and  warmed  to  excitement  in  the  spirit  of  adven- 
ture and  later  we  carried  them  through  successfully. 

We  began  by  taking  the  tram  up  to  Fiesole  in  the 
afternoon,  carrying  provision  with  us  for  a  meal  al  fresco. 
Arrived  at  the  piazza  where  it  sits  securely  in  its  saddle 
upon  the  hill,  looking  down  on  either  side  to  valleys 
below,  we  made  our  escape  as  quickly  as  possible  from 
the  vendors  of  straw  fans  who  project  themselves  upon 
all  newcomers,  and  directed  our  steps  westward,  along 
the  spine  of  the  ridge.  Beyond  the  confines  of  the  vil- 
lage we  came  out  upon  scattered  trees  not  yielding  much 
shade,  and  thence  to  slopes  covered  with  low-growing 
shrubs — an  almost  wild  bit  of  country  with  farmhouses 
at  long  distances  apart. 

On  reaching  the  first  of  our  two  castles,  Poggio  Cas- 
tello,  we  found  it  inhospitable,  for  a  printed  notice  warned 
trespassers  away,  so  we  could  only  circle  round  it  and 
admire  its  dark  solidity  and  the  tall  pines  that  profiled 
themselves  against  its  gray  walls  and  battlements.  A 
restless  wind  played  about  it  which  suggested  its  being 
cool  and  comfortable  when  the  warmth  of  summer  set  in, 
for  Florence  is  said  to  become  almost  unbearably  hot 
from  July  to  September.  At  this  place  the  descent  began 
and  we  strolled  downwards,  seating  ourselves  now  and 
then  to  look  at  the  valley  spread  out  before  us  and  rec- 
ognize the  different  clusters  of  roofs  between  the  trees ; 
so  we  approached  at  last  our  second  trastle,  first  passing 
the  little  church  and  the  handful  of  buildings  that  lie 
below  its  walls. 

Vincigliata  is  a  sort  of  phoenix,  which  rose  from  its 
ashes  about  forty  years  ago.  It  had  had  a  long  and 
varied  history  as  tumultuous  as  the  times  in  which  it 
existed,  ending  at  last  in  its  complete  demolishment. 
How  long  it  remained  a  mere  heap  of  ruins  I  do  not 
know,  but  at  last  it  was  purchased  by  an  American,  Mr. 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  55 

Leader,  with  the  idea  of  rebuilding  it.  It  seemed  a 
gigantic  undertaking.  The  outline  of  the  exterior  was 
hardly  traceable  and  all  that  remained  standing  was  a 
fragment  of  wall  which  had  formed  part  of  the  principal 
tower.  It  is  said  that,  given  a  single  bone,  Mr.  Agassiz 
could  reconstruct  a  whole  primeval  fish,  and  perhaps  in 
like  manner  archaeologists  can  project  a  whole  building 
from  the  most  insignificant  remnant. 

At  all  events,  whatever  secrets  archaeology  and  his- 
tory yielded  up,  Vincigliata  took  shape  again,  its  walls 
and  towers,  its  battlements  and  fortifications  became 
tangible,  cypresses  grew  up  about  it  and  took  on  the 
look  of  age,  and  with  the  completion  of  the  exterior 
the  interior  was  not  neglected.  Old  armor  and  weap- 
ons hang  upon  the  walls,  relics  of  antiquity  are  col- 
lected everywhere,  and  much  modern  reproduction  helps 
it  out.  Decades  ago  wealth  could  command  much  more 
than  it  can  to-day,  when  every  corner  of  Italy  has 
been  ransacked  for  such  things,  and  the  treasures  of 
carved  marble  and  stone  one  comes  upon  here  are  not 
now  to  be  found.  We  lingered  fascinated  by  the  medi- 
aeval kitchen  with  its  interesting  contrivances,  its  cavern- 
ous recesses,  and  its  huge  copper  vessels;  examples  of 
majolica  in  a  row  just  above  our  heads  lent  a  glowing 
band  of  color  to  the  dusky  apartment,  for  when  showers 
of  arrows  were  liable  to  enter  at  the  windows  light  had 
perforce  to  be  curtailed.  In  the  courtyard  a  row  of  mar- 
ble tablets  in  the  wall  commemorated  the  reception  of 
many  parties  of  titled  visitors,  and  certain  rooms  were 
furnished  to  receive  the  family  when  they  wished  to  stay 
there,  a  thing  which  the  custodian  says  does  not  happen 
now.  It  is  open  on  Sundays  and  Thursdays  to  those 
who  bring  the  required  permit,  and  although  it  was  neither 
of  those  days  we  dared  to  ring  at  the  postern,  confiding 
in  the  good  nature  of  the  custodian  (who  of  course  gains 


56  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

some  profit  from  visitors)  and  were  not  refused  admit- 
tance. 

When  we  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  tower  and 
peered  fearfully  into  the  black  depths  of  an  oubliette  which 
afforded  heartfelt  satisfaction  to  the  youngest  member  of 
our  trio,  we  took  leave  of  Vincigliata  and  proceeding  a 
little  beyond  its  boundaries  chose  a  favorable  situation 
for  our  out-of-door  feast,  which  of  course  was  more  or 
less  frugal  in  its  elements  as  we  had  been  obliged  to  carry 
it  with  us  during  our  long  ramble.  On  our  travels  we 
never  waste  the  smallest  remainder  of  these  repasts,  how- 
ever. In  America  what  would  be  the  surprise  and  dis- 
dain of  a  passer-by  to  whom  you  offered  a  few  mouthfuls 
of  food,  but  here  there  is  always  some  one  to  whom  you 
may  proffer  it,  sure  of  a  smile  and  a  ready  acceptance. 
Such  an  one  we  encountered  soon  after  our  repast  as  we 
walked  on,  a  ruddy-faced  man  a  little  past  middle  age, 
trudging  homeward  from  his  labor  on  the  roads,  his 
clothes  powdered  with  the  dust  of  the  light  stone  used. 
He  had  a  good,  intelligent  face  and  a  cheerful  expression, 
and  accepted  our  small  offering  with  an  acknowledgment 
so  pleasant  and  at  the  same  time  so  self-respecting  that 
he  put  us  quite  at  our  ease,  and  left  us  wishing  it  had 
been  much  larger. 

Passing  some  delightful  villas  and  gardens  as  we 
neared  the  foot  of  the  hills,  and  reluctantly  leaving  unex- 
plored the  path  that  would  have  taken  us  aside  to  Setti- 
gnano,  that  alluring  little  nest,  we  reached  the  group  of 
houses  at  the  terminus  of  the  tram,  whose  infrequent 
trips  seemed  to  be  supplemented  by  a  light  cart  which 
stood  by  the  roadside  and  whose  proprietor  offered  to  set 
us  down  inside  the  barriers  of  Florence  for  a  sum  that 
but  slightly  exceeded  the  tram  fare.  We  disguised  our 
surprise  and  joy  fully  accepted,  and  having  the  little  vehi- 
cle to  ourselves  jogged  home  in  the  utmost  comfort  and 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  57 

4 

good  humor,  enjoying  the  sweet  fields  and  hedgerows 
and  the  ever  new  beauty  of  the  delicious  valley  in  the 
oncoming  twilight. 

At  the  barriers  we  bargained  with  our  handsome 
vetturino  for  an  extension  of  the  drive — could  he  not 
take  us  across  the  city  and  set  us  down  at  Doney's? 
For  we  had  concluded  that  a  luxurious,  nay  almost 
dissipated  climax  to  our  day  of  pleasure  would  be  to 
have  ices  and  confectionery  upon  a  little  table  outside 
that  celebrated  caffe.  He  agreed  at  once  and  volunteered 
to  leave  any  extra  compensation  to  the  generosity  of 
the  Signore.  Artful  being !  how  well  he  understood  the 
softening  effect  of  such  confidence!  How  could  we  do 
less  after  this  than  to  part  leaving  him  with  a  satisfied 
smile  and  a  cheery  tone  in  the  voice  that  wished  us 
good  night? 

The  preparations  for  Easter  are  going  on.  All  the 
pictures  in  the  churches  are  covered,  many  windows  are 
darkened,  and  even  the  figures  of  Christ  on  the  small 
crucifixes  have  little  bits  of  purple  cloth  fastened  over 
them.  Between  Thursday  and  Sunday  no  bells  will  be 
rung,  but  at  noon  on  Sunday  all  the  bells  of  Florence 
will  resound  at  once.  On  Holy  Thursday,  after  the 
manner  of  good  Roman  Catholics,  we  visited  churches 
to  see  the  various  representations  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
prepared  in  each  one.  To  do  your  duty  properly  on 
that  occasion  you  must  go  to  seven ;  we  overdid  ours 
and,  first  and  last,  visited  ten ;  and  yet  when  all  was  over 
we  were  cruelly  informed  that  we  had  omitted  the  one 
we  should  have  seen  above  all  others  —  that  of  San 
Giovenino.  There  is  of  course  a  wide  choice  as  there 
are  eighty  important  churches  in  Florence,  besides  I 
know  not  how  many  smaller  ones.  For  the  representa- 
tion of  the  sepulchre  a  chapel  in  the  church  is  chosen, 
decorated  with  flowers  and  greenery,  and  lighted  by 


58  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

scores  of  candles,  from  the  height  of  a  taper  to  that  of 
many  feet. 

As  you  enter  some  churches  the  fragrance  of  fresh 
blossoms  meets  you ;  in  others  the  flowers  are  mostly  of 
paper  fastened  carefully  upon  stems  of  real  green  leaves, 
but  everywhere  a  great  feature  is  the  pots  of  sprouting 
wheat.  These  are  prepared  eight  days  beforehand  and 
placed  in  a  cellar  or  other  nearly  dark  place,  so  that 
the  grain  as  it  sprouts  and  seeks  the  light  shall  remain 
white.  It  grows  to  a  length  of  six  or  eight  inches,  part 
of  it  drooping  over  the  edges  so  that  the  outside  of  the 
pot  is  nearly  concealed,  and  numbers  of  these  pots  are 
placed  among  the  other  plants  and  arranged  as  borders 
upon  the  floor.  In  some  churches  the  flowers,  plants 
and  burning  tapers  form  the  total  preparation,  but  they  all 
vary  in  the  arrangement  of  their  effects.  In  the  Miseri- 
cordia,  the  most  interesting  one  we  saw,  the  church  was 
hung  with  black  and  there  was  no  light  excepting  what 
came  from  the  altar  of  the  sepulchre.  A  life-size  figure 
of  the  dead  Christ  lay  there,  terribly  real,  and  covered 
with  wounds  ghastly  in  their  verisimilitude  and  crimson 
with  streaming  or  coagulated  blood.  A  silent  crowd 
coming  and  going  filled  the  church.  Women  and 
children  pressed  up  to  kiss  the  body  and  babies  were 
raised  in  their  mothers'  arms  that  they  might  touch  their 
lips  to  each  wound  separately. 

Above  the  bier,  and  appearing  everywhere  among 
the  flowers  and  lights,  were  the  emblems  of  the  Passion — 
the  crown  of  thorns,  the  nails,  the  sponge,  the  sword, 
the  dice,  the  red  robe,  the  ladder,  the  hand  which  buf- 
feted, the  pillar  to  which  He  was  bound,  and  the  cock  that 
reminded  Peter.  The  people  stream  from  one  church  to 
another  to  pray  at  as  many  as  they  can  during  the  day. 
The  parishes,  of  course,  differ  much  in  the  amount  and 
cost  of  the  decoration  which  they  can  afford.  For 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  59 

example,  San  Giovenino,  the  church  we  failed  to  see, 
belongs  to  a  rich  parish  whose  wealthy  inhabitants  send 
such  masses  of  exquisite  hot-house  flowers  that  there  is 
said  to  be  nothing  like  it  in  Florence.  However,  there 
is  an  artificiality  about  this  which  one  regards  as  hardly 
more  than  curious.  The  true  spirit  of  the  thing  is  to 
be  found  in  some  little  village  where  the  rural  popula- 
tion, full  of  sincere  feeling  and  unquestioning  faith,  deck 
the  sepulchre  with  field  flowers  and  the  simple  offerings 
they  are  able  to  bring,  and  something  like  this  we  saw 
in  the  little  village  of  Grassina,  whither  we  went  to  see 
a  procession  which  takes  place  at  this  season  yearly. 
I  •  Under  the  guidance  of  the  organizer  of  the  expe- 
dition we  carried  our  supper  with  us,  and  started  upon 
our  hour's  drive  out  into  the  country  late  in  the  after- 
noon. The  sun  was  near  the  horizon  when  we  entered 
the  long  street  of  the  little  village  and  all  the  population 
was  abroad,  together  with  many  visitors  who  had  come 
on  foot  or  in  vehicles  of  every  description  to  be  present 
at  the  ceremonies.  Booths  were  set  up  on  either  side  of 
the  way  for  the  sale  of  sweet-cakes  and  other  eatables 
and  we  stopped  to  purchase  some  wafers  special  to  the 
occasion.  The  thrifty  dealer,  noting  the  fact  that  we 
were  foreigners,  gave  us  less  than  half  the  quantity  the 
same  money  would  have  purchased  if  offered  by  a  native, 
but  when  we  had  tasted  the  cakes  we  were  satisfied  with 
the  quantity,  as  they  were  strong  of  anise,  a  flavor  which 
they  here  like  carried  to  a  point  far  beyond  what  we  find 
pleasant. 

Participants  in  the  procession  were  collecting,  and 
ever  and  anon  a  knight  with  pasteboard  helmet  and  long 
rose-colored  or  blue  cotton  cloak  came  pricking  by, 
hastening  to  the  rendezvous.  The  church  stood  a  little 
above  the  village  on  the  long,  gradual  slope  of  a  hill, 
and  we  mounted  to  it  and  afterwards  chose  a  position  a 


60  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

little  above  it  where  was  a  stone-terraced  garden,  giving 
us  a  position  overhanging  the  road  by  which  the  proces- 
sion would  approach,  so  that  no  group  of  village  lads 
could  cut  off  our  view  at  the  last  moment.  Here,  upon 
a  carpet  of  grass  next  a  border  of  blue  iris,  we  seated 
ourselves  to  enjoy  the  sunset  and  our  supper  while 
waiting.  Placed  as  we  were  we  overlooked  the  little 
basin-like  valley  ;  the  village  lay  at  the  bottom,  and  the 
grass-covered  hills  curved  away  and  upward  from  it  on 
every  side.  The  sun,  almost  disappearing  over  the  rim, 
sent  down  long  golden  shafts,  accenting  the  shadows  on 
one  side,  while  it  glorified  every  growing  thing  on  the 
other.  The  tufts  of  grass,  the  clumps  of  shaggy  bushes, 
gilded  in  its  rays,  seemed  to  round  themselves  to  more 
harmonious  mouldings,  and  the  waved  outline  of  the 
hills  above  was  almost  fluent  against  the  pale  blue  of  the 
sky. 

Softly  but  quickly  the  changes  of  light  take  place  at 
this  hour ;  very  soon  the  sun  had  dipped,  but  it  was  not 
till  twilight  was  upon  us  that  the  head  of  the  procession 
turned  the  corner  of  the  church  and  began  to  mount  the 
slope  in  our  direction.  Leading  it  were  several  musi- 
cians playing  dirges  and  requiems,  whose  lingering  meas- 
ures floated  out  upon  the  air  of  the  little  pastoral  valley 
with  a  curiously  mournful  effect.  Following  the  musi- 
cians were  the  Roman  knights  whom  we  had  met  singly 
earlier  in  the  afternoon.  They  were  more  impressive 
now;  pasteboard  and  cotton  turned  to  steel  and  velvet 
in  the  half  light,  illuminated  by  the  flare  of  the  torches, 
and  the  dignity  with  which  they  sat  their  chargers  was 
all  that  could  be  required  of  them.  Then  came  a  num- 
ber of  little  boys  bearing  the  emblems  of  the  Passion,  and 
following  them  the  Apostles,  clothed  in  loose  robes  and 
turban-like  headgear  of  white.  They  preceded  a  bier 
bearing  upon  it  the  dead  Christ,  and  as  it  came  all  the 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  61 

peasantry  gathered  upon  either  side  of  the  path,  dropped 
to  their  knees  and  remained  with  bared  heads  till  it  had 
passed  them.  After  this  appeared  a  troop  of  little  girls 
in  white  frocks  and  black  sashes,  their  rosy  faces  filled 
with  the  seriousness  of  the  occasion  and  the  importance 
of  their  share  in  it,  and  after  them  paced  the  older  girls, 
also  in  white  and  with  white  veils.  Very  charming  and 
virginal  they  looked,  in  spite  of  a  slight  self-consciousness 
in  the  air  of  some  of  them,  and  behind  them  towered  the 
Queen  of  Heaven,  carried  upright  under  a  swaying 
canopy  managed  with  some  difficulty  upon  the  steepness 
of  the  hillside.  A  band  of  older  women  walked  behind, 
dressed  in  deep  black,  and  the  procession  closed  with 
a  large  number  of  people  in  every-day  dress,  representing 
the  populace  sure  to  be  present  upon  all  public  occasions. 

Some  halts  and  hesitations  gave  us  the  opportunity 
we  wished,  to  examine  details  of  emblems  and  costume, 
and  to  note  the  sincerity  and  gravity  with  which  the 
whole  ceremony  was  regarded  by  both  participants  and 
spectators.  Then  the  cortege  slowly  withdrew  and  grad- 
ually became  a  long,  undulating  line,  marked  by  the 
luminous  dots  of  its  torches,  twinkling  and  dipping  as  it 
followed  the  irregularities  of  the  path  where  it  mounted 
and  dropped  among  the  folds  of  the  hills.  Long  we 
gazed  after  it  and  then  reluctantly  left  our  garden  perch 
to  return  to  the  village,  mount  our  carriage  again  and 
drive  back  through  the  light  of  stars,  whose  broken 
reflections  we  watched  in  the  ripples  of  the  Arno  as  we 
followed  its  banks  toward  Florence. 

In  the  afternoon  of  Holy  Thursday  there  is  a  great 
emblematical  ceremony  at  the  cathedral,  the  washing  of 
feet.  We  went  early  to  secure  favorable  places,  but  as 
the  high  altar  is  surrounded  by  a  screen  of  glass  in  heavy 
panels,  it  is  not  easy  to  find  them.  After  we  had  waited 
for  a  while  a  procession  came  slowly  up  the  church,  and 


62  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY  ' 

from  it  twelve  old  men  from  the  almshouse,  dressed  in 
long  white  robes  and  with  their  heads  bound  round  with 
white,  filed  into  the  chancel  and  sat  upon  a  high  settle 
covered  with  brocade,  before  which  was  a  foot-rest.  The 
space  around  was  filled  with  priests  and  choristers,  and 
presently  the  archbishop  mounted  his  throne.  Then,  as 
the  ceremony  went  on,  there  was  much  dressing  and 
undressing  of  the  feeble  old  archbishop,  almost  buried 
under  his  costly  robes.  They  changed  his  habiliments, 
they  put  on  and  off  the  mitre,  they  gave  and  took  away 
the  crosier;  but  at  length  he  slowly  descended  the  steps 
of  the  throne  and  proceeded  toward  the  beggars,  whose 
shoes  and  stockings  were  removed  by  this  time.  A  great 
silver  basin  was  presented,  each  old  fellow's  heels  rested 
in  the  basin  in  turn,  while  a  little  water  was  poured  on 
them  and  a  slight  drying  with  a  towel  followed,  after 
which  the  great  dignitary  bent  forward  as  if  to  kiss  the 
feet;  but  this  was  done  symbolically,  as  on  the  stage. 

Not  so  very  long  ago,  before  the  unification  of  Italy, 
King  Carlo  Albertus  used  also  to  perform  a  ceremony 
something  like  this,  but  more  agreeable.  Twelve  little 
boys,  up  to  the  age  of  twelve  years,  the  prettiest  that 
could  be  found  among  the  noble  families  of  Italy,  were 
taken  to  the  palace,  the  King  washed  their  feet  and  after- 
ward they  remained  to  breakfast  with  him.  He  gave  to 
each  a  costume  of  velvet  and  a  silver  knife,  fork  and 
spoon.  But  the  most  remarkable  result  of  this  event 
was  that  none  of  the  children  so  honored  was  subject 
later  to  capital  punishment,  no  matter  what  crime  he 
might  commit  when  grown  up  —  imprisonment,  if  neces- 
sary, but  not  execution. 

All  day  long  on  Holy  Thursday  as  you  go  from 
church  to  church  you  see  for  sale  outside  each  one  num- 
bers of  rods  bound  spirally  with  colored  paper.  These 
have  to  do  with  a  service  which  takes  place  about  sun- 


SOJOURNING    IN    FLORENCE  63 

down.  At  that  time  we  repaired  to  Santa  Maria  Novella 
and  edged  our  way  slowly  through  the  thousands  of  people 
already  assembled  till  we  reached  the  lighted  sepulchre, 
or  rather  stood  within  sight  of  it  on  some  steps  which 
raised  us  above  the  surging  crowd,  for  it  never  remains 
stationary  but  sways  and  moves  perpetually.  Out  of 
sight,  the  choir  chanted  the  penitential  psalms,  with  inter- 
vals between.  Just  as  the  singers  are  finishing  the  last 
one  a  noise  suddenly  begins,  and  in  a  moment  swells  to  a 
thunderous  volume  of  sound.  This  is  the  flagellation, 
and  it  lasts  a  few  moments  only,  till  the  rods  with  which 
the  people  are  supplied  have  been  broken,  as  they  furi- 
ously beat  the  stone  floor,  the  steps,  the  columns — 
anything  nearest  them.  Originally  perhaps  there  was  a 
solemnity  to  this  observance,  but  now  it  appears  to  be 
mostly  confined  to  the  children.  I  did  not  see  any  grown 
people  assisting  at  the  beating. 

On  Good  Friday  at  noon  there  is  a  famous  musical 
service  at  the  same  great  church,  called  "The  Three 
Hours  of  Agony,"  in  commemoration  of  Christ's  suf- 
fering on  the  cross.  For  these  three  hours  singing  and 
exhortation  alternate.  The  church  is  darkened  and  the 
high  altar  concealed  by  a  representation  of  Calvary  as 
large  as  the  scenery  of  a  theatre,  with  life-size  figures  of 
the  people  standing  about  the  cross.  We  stayed  only 
about  an  hour,  for  the  crowd  was  so  great  that  we  could 
not  get  near  enough  to  hear  the  exposition  of  the  priest, 
and  we  found  that  there  were  twenty  minutes  of  preach- 
ing to  five  of  music.  This  virtually  closed  those  ceremo- 
nials in  Holy  Week  which  were  of  any  note.  It  is  not 
now  as  it  once  was.  "As  black  is  to  white,  so  is  the 
Holy  Week  of  to-day  to  that  of  Pio  Nono's  time,"  said 
an  Italian  friend  to  whom  we  ventured  to  intimate  that 
we  had  looked  for  a  little  more  pomp  and  circumstance 
in  its  observance. 


DRIVING  THROUGH  TUSCANY 


O  silent  walls  that  once  with  chants  resounded, 
Girt  with  your  mournful  cypresses  and  yews, 

Do  ye  in  prone  forgetfulness  but  slumber, 
Or  on  your  sad  decay,  desponding  muse  ? 

Ashes  to  ashes  !     So  shall  yours  return 

To  those  of  this  gray  soil,  or  else  be  cast 
To  the  harsh  winds  that  nightly  beat  upon 

And  long  to  rend  and  level  ye  at  last. 

T.  M.  B.     A  Tuscan  Monastery. 

IT  Siena  good  fortune  in  weather 
seemed  to  desert  us,  and  we  began 
almost  to  despair  of  carrying  out 
our  cherished  plan  of  driving  to 
Monte  Oliveto  and  beyond.  Two 
days  we  waited  anxiously  while  it 
poured  continuously,  our  good 
hosts,  full  of  kindness  and  solici- 
tude, watching  the  clouds  with  us, 
in  the  meanwhile  helping  us  to  make  a  provisional 
arrangement  with  one  Antonio  Gracci,  the  owner  of  a 
pair  of  stout  horses  and  a  comfortable  carriage.  Sum- 
moned to  an  audience,  that  proprietor  appeared,  and  after 
a  preliminary  skirmish  with  our  hostess  in  the  hall,  during 
which  she  endeavored  to  discourage  his  overcharging  us, 
we  had  an  interview  in  the  little  salon.  You  are  not  to 


DRIVING   THROUGH    TUSCANY          65 

suppose  that  this  was  a  simple  inquiry  as  to  terms  and  a 
direct  reply,  with  the  whole  affair,  bald  and  unexciting, 
over  in  three  minutes — nothing  of  the  sort.  The 
padrone  having  settled  himself  solidly  upon  one  chair,  I 
should  have  leaned  indifferently  back  in  another,  while 
we  discussed  terms.  But  I  am  comparatively  new  to 
these  affairs  and  prone  to  become  too  early  heated  in 
discussion,  so  that  I  am  conscious  now  of  having  sat 
much  too  far  forward  upon  the  edge  of  my  chair  and 
of  having  allowed  matters  to  come  to  a  focus  too  rapidly. 
He,  having  proposed  a  price,  I  gazed  at  him  with  con- 
sternation depicted  upon  my  countenance  and  suggested 
another.  He  feigned  despair  and  resorted  to  trans- 
parently flimsy  pretexts  for  his  overcharge,  while  I 
triumphantly  exposed  them.  We  both  talked  animatedly, 
and  I  must  modestly  chronicle  my  own  subsequent 
surprise  at  the  gift  of  tongues  which  seemed  to  descend 
upon  me  on  this  occasion.  My  halting  Italian  appeared 
to  clear  itself  up  for  the  encounter  and  I  became  almost 
voluble.  We  ended  amicably,  I  paying  for  the  two  days 
more  than  I  had  intended  to,  of  course,  but  not  dissatis- 
fied, since  Antonio  is  known  to  have  horses  strong  and 
reliable  for  a  long  journey,  which  is  not  the  case  at  all 
the  stables  in  Siena. 

Fortunately  for  us,  in  the  night  the  weather  changed, 
hat  in  the  morning  our  chariot  with  its  two  good,  fat 
rses  and  a  fresh-faced  young  driver,  drew  up  at  the 
door  about  nine,  and  our  light  luggage  being  packed  into 
it  we  established  ourselves  in  great  comfort.  We  like  a 
youthful  driver,  for  at  that  age  they  are  not  apt  to  dom- 
ineer, but  are  modest  and  submissive  and  willing  to  take 
suggestions.  Our  cordial  hosts  waved  their  hands  to  us 
till  we  were  out  of  sight,  and  we  set  off  in  high  spirits. 
The  roads  were  perfect  in  spite  of  the  long  rain,  early 
flowers  were  sprinkled  along  each  side  of  the  way  and 


66  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

the  vines  were  beginning  to  come  into  leaf.  There  were 
patches  of  snow  on  the  mountains  here  and  there  still, 
and  the  air  was  cool  and  bracing.  We  trotted  on  to  the 
cheerful  accompaniment  of  our  jingling  bells,  and  cast 
many  long  looks  backward  as  our  dear  little  Siena  made 
tender  adieu  to  us,  showing  us  a  different  aspect  at  the 
summit  of  each  hill  and  finally  melting  into  a  thin  fringe 
of  slender  points  and  towers  up  against  the  horizon. 

From  the  valley  of  the  Arbia  we  made  a  long, 
gradual  ascent  to  the  monastery  of  Monte  Olive  to,  perched 
on  a  sort  of  mountainous  promontory  among  rugged 
ravines,  with  an  outlook  over  miles  upon  miles  of  plains 
and  ridges ;  a  great  silent  edifice  of  purplish  red  brick, 
which  once  housed  nearly  three  hundred  monks  but  now 
shelters  only  four,  with  two  students  and  two  servants. 
It  has  been  suppressed  since  Napoleon's  day  and  now 
belongs  to  the  government.  To  visit  it  you  must  go  to 
the  authorities  in  Siena  and  get  a  permit,  which  you  send 
on  by  post  ten  days  beforehand  to  announce  when  you 
may  be  expected,  since  you  are  warned  that  otherwise 
there  would  be  nothing  to  eat.  We  entered  the  enclosure 
through  a  great  battlemented  gateway  which  raises  itself 
above  rows  of  sombre,  pointed  cypresses,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  reached  the  entrance.  We  were  received  by  one 
of  the  two  servants  and  ushered  into  the  cloisters,  where 
presently  the  father  highest  in  authority,  Don  Giuse^B 
Fabbri,  came  to  speak  to  us,  in  his  long  cream-wn^ 
robes,  a  most  picturesque  figure.  He  asked  us  how  long 
we  wished  to  remain,  ordered  a  younger  priest  to  show 
us  over  the  building,  and  left  us.  We  first  studied  the 
cloisters  which  Signorelli  and  Sodoma  have  lined  with 
scenes  from  the  life  of  St.  Bernardo,  who  in  the  four- 
teenth century  came  to  this  lonely  infertile  region  to 
begin  his  monastic  life.  The  miracles  which  attended 
his  career  are  delightfully  portrayed  by  these  two  great 


DRIVING   THROUGH    TUSCANY  67 

masters,  many  of  them  such  innocent  and  childlike 
little  miracles  that  one  smiles  perforce,  as,  for  example, 
where  a  brother  engaged  in  carpentering  work  lets  an 
iron  tool  fall  into  the  water,  and  St.  Bernardo's  holy  power 
causes  it  to  float  to  the  surface  again  within  reach  of  his 
hand.  Such  smooth,  smiling,  round-faced  brothers,  such 
clear,  light  colors,  such  fair,  green  gardens  as  are  depicted ; 
it  is  wonderful  to  think  that  the  centuries  have  passed 
over  these  lovely  frescoes  and  withered  them  so  little. 

After  a  tour  of  exploration  to  those  parts  of  the 
monastery  that  are  shown,  and  a  luncheon  served  to  us 
in  the  refectory,  we  were  taken  upstairs  through  long, 
empty,  resounding  corridors  to  our  rooms.  We  passed 
rows  of  doors  to  cells  of  monks  long  gone,  and  at  last 
reached  the  place  assigned  to  us,  a  sort  of  little  suite, 
which  I  fancy  must  have  been  intended  for  a  higher 
church  dignitary.  The  salon  had  a  groined  ceiling  elab- 
orately frescoed ;  opening  from  it  in  succession  were  two 
bedrooms,  each  with  a  narrow  iron  bed,  a  chair  and  a 
table,  and  at  the  end  a  bit  of  a  dressing-room  with  the 
most  primitive  of  bathing  appliances.  These  cells  were 
guiltless  of  the  vanity  of  mirrors,  and  one  must  dress  by 
imagination ;  but  there  was  a  Madonna  over  the  head  of 
each  bed  and  a  crucifix  at  one  side,  with  a  vase  for  holy 
water  below  it. 

We  spent  the  afternoon  taking  a  Jong  walk  around 
and  beyond  the  monastery  and  getting  views  from  many 
points  of  vantage.  A  still  higher  ridge  rises  above  this 
one,  and  crowning  it  is  Chiusuri,  one  of  the  tiny  Italian 
hill  villages  that  one  wonders  over.  It  would  be  easier  to 
guess  why  it  was  originally  perched  upon  this  height — 
and  indeed  it  was  of  importance  in  its  day — than  what 
keeps  it  still  in  existence.  Incredibly  little  as  the  peas- 
antry must  be  able  to  live  on,  one  can  hardly  see  how 
or  where  that  little  is  wrung  from  this  soil.  It  caps 


68  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

the  very  summit  of  the  ridge ;  steep  earthen  cliffs 
and  ravines  fall  away  from  it,  composed  of  a  soil  that 
has  been  the  despair  of  the  husbandman  for  its  chalky, 
shifting  quality.  St.  Bernardo  made  it  his  life-work  to 
reclaim  parts  of  it  and  render  it  fit  for  the  support  of 
human  life,  but  labor  can  never  have  compelled  much 
of  a  return,  and  season  after  season  avalanches  of  gray 
mud  precipitated  themselves  upon  vineyards  and  olive 
plantations,  sometimes  completely  destroying  them. 

At  seven  o'clock  we  repaired  again  to  the  refectory, 
and  there  at  one  end  of  the  long  table  our  meal  was 
served  to  us  dimly  lighted  by  an  old  Roman  lamp.  But 
indeed  we  would  have  wished  no  brighter  light ;  a  partial 
obscurity  suited  far  better  the  age  in  which  we  were 
living,  and  who  knows  but  this  flickering  lamp  may 
have  served  here  for  centuries.  I  talked  to  our  waiter 
and  found  him  very  communicative.  I  asked  if  he  were 
not  a  little  lonely  here,  and  he  acknowledged  feelingly 
that  he  was,  that  it  was  desolate  and  he  had  no  one 
to  speak  to.  The  other  seven  inmates,  including  the 
cook,  were  all  in  holy  orders,  he  being  the  only  lay- 
man. He  held  that  the  wind  always  howled  round  the 
old  building  as  it  did  that  night;  and  perhaps  ghosts 
walk — there  is  vast  space  and  emptiness  enough  for 
anything.  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  the  padres  must 
still  harbor  resentful  feelings  toward  intruding  women 
who  come  to  invade  a  retreat  once  closed  against  their 
objectionable  sex,  but  to  my  surprise  when  the  last 
course,  of  small  sour  raisins  and  tough  cheese,  was  served, 
Don  Giuseppe  came  in,  seated  himself  at  the  table  with 
us  and  affably  entered  into  conversation.  I  proffered 
various  questions  about  the  establishment  and  he  politely 
explained,  so  that  we  sat  quite  a  little  while  over  our 
slender  dessert. 

It  seems  that  ordinary  visitors  to  the  monastery  are 


MONTI  OLIVETO.      CHIUSURI. 


DRIVING    THROUGH    TUSCANY  69 

not  allowed  to  remain  more  than  two  days.  Each  one 
pays  five  lire  a  day,  no  more,  no  less.  Of  course,  one 
may  make  a  donation  to  the  establishment,  but  it  is  not 
asked  or  hinted  for.  On  special  application  it  is  possi- 
ble to  stay  several  weeks,  and  Don  Fabbri  was  proud  of 
an  English  scholar  who,  he  told  us,  came  every  year,  to 
make  an  extended  stay,  for  the  purpose  of  studying  in 
the  great  library.  I  must  confess  that  the  food  is  such 
as  to  suggest  mortification  of  the  flesh,  and  while  one 
may  easily  find  enough  to  satisfy  one's  hunger  at  dinner- 
time, breakfast  is  not  very  sustaining.  At  that  time 
coffee  of  an  undrinkable  kind  is  served  with  crostini, — 
that  is,  fragments  of  the  unsalted  bread  of  the  country 
dried  in  the  oven  to  a  fossil-like  hardness.  No  butter 
is  offered  at  any  meal  and  the  water  has  a  strong  earthy 
flavor,  possibly  harmless  but  certainly  unpleasant.  The 
wine  is  good. 

In  our  comings  and  goings  we  now  and  then  en- 
countered Andrea,  our  young  veffurino,  hanging  about 
the  monastery  yards  and  stables  with  an  air  of  such 
settled  melancholy  as  awakened  our  sympathy.  He,  as 
well  as  the  camerierey  appeared  to  find  no  companionship 
and  to  experience  a  depression  hard  to  endure.  It  was 
therefore  with  an  air  of  cheerful  alacrity  that  he  prepared 
to  resume  the  journey  on  the  second  morning,  and  hav- 
ing bidden  Don  Fabbri  a  cordial  farewell  we  turned  our 
faces  eastward,  meaning  to  drive  through  San  Quirico  and 
Pienza  to  Montepulciano,  San  Quirico  being  a  conven- 
ient stopping-place  for  luncheon,  besides  being  in  itself 
interesting.  After  descending  from  the  altitude  of  Monte 
Oliveto  one  travels  through  a  country  of  valleys  and 
low  hills,  smooth  with  cultivation,  among  which,  at  noon, 
one  reaches  San  Quirico. 

At  the  sign  of  "  The  Two  Rabbits  "  our  chariot 
drew  up  and  we  had  an  interview  with  the  fat  landlady, 


70  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

who  promised  to  prepare  colazione  while  we  went  to  visit 
the  old  Chigi  garden,  and  we  started  at  once  in  search 
of  the  key.  To  live  in  a  castle  or  palazzo  in  Tuscany 
where  there  is  no  space  for  a  garden  is  not  necessarily 
to  be  deprived  of  one,  only  to  be  separated  from  it  by 
a  short  distance,  and  so  when  the  key  had  been  given 
us  we  proceeded  to  an  entrance  in  a  high  gray  wall,  and 
when  it  had  grated  in  the  lock  and  the  ancient  gates  had 
swung  back  on  their  hinges,  we  beheld  the  garden  indeed, 
a  tranquil  green  wilderness,  but  no  villa,  only  a  slender 
stone  tower  that  sprang  up  at  one  side  from  a  carpet  of 
untrodden  meadow-grass,  and  beyond,  whispering  ilex 
woods  mounting  an  irregular  slope  which  had  once  been 
carefully  tended  terraces. 

Never  could  this  lovely  solitude  have  been  so  beauti- 
ful in  its  prime  as  it  is  in  its  decay.  We  were  at  liberty 
to  loiter  here  as  long  as  we  liked  and  we  rustled  across 
the  field-flowers  and  bending  grass-blades  to  the  shade  of 
glossy  deep-green  leafage  that  sheltered  a  moss-grown 
stone  bench.  This  bench  interested  us  from  its  quaint 
form.  It  was  circular,  and  the  slim  column  around  which 
it  turned  ended  in  a  Janus-like  head  whose  disintegrated 
features  bore  the  appearance  of  having  been  originally 
carved  in  sugar  and  then  partly  melted  away  by  rain.  A 
little  higher  there  was  a  beautiful  old  stone  table  with  seats 
on  opposite  sides.  It  yielded  a  possibility  of  places  for 
four,  and  yet  it  suggested  harboring  only  two  ;  not  two 
lovers,  who  would  have  chosen  the  circular  bench,  but 
two  friends,  who,  content  to  be  opposite  each  other 
instead  of  side  by  side,  might  muse  and  talk,  leaning  idly 
on  the  stone  slab  between  them,  while  from  the  roof  of 
their  cool  retreat  only  an  occasional  flicker  of  sunlight 
dropped  through  to  touch  them.  The  more  open  parts 
of  the  garden  were  commanded  by  the  upper  windows 
of  a  line  of  houses  looking  almost  as  old  as  the  wall  they 


DRIVING   THROUGH   TUSCANY  71 

peeped  over,  so  that  on  a  fesfa,  when  the  nobility  in 
gala  array  disported  themselves  upon  the  terraces,  excel- 
lent opportunity  for  enjoying  the  spectacle  must  have 
been  afforded  to  the  humbler  townsfolk.  On  our  return 
to  the  inn  the  old  padrona,  who  was  also  cook,  came  up- 
stairs and  hovered  about,  to  see  how  we  liked  our  pranzo, 
and  wrung  her  hands  when  she  observed  how  little  soup 
we  took. 

At  this  meal  we  had  a  new  dish,  small  dark-red  arti- 
chokes, eaten  raw,  dipped  in  olive  oil  and  salt.  The 
young  woman  who  waited  at  table  instructed  us  how  to 
prepare  them  and  encouraged  us  in  our  efforts  to  appre- 
ciate them.  In  the  course  of  conversation  we  told  her 
that  we  were  from  America,  and  she  exclaimed  that  she 
longed  to  go  to  that  country.  We  told  her  that  she 
would  hardly  find  anywhere  in  the  world  a  fairer  land 
than  her  own,  but  she  only  shook  her  head  and  repeated: 
"Ah  !  you  say  that  because  you  are  foreigners.  I  do  not 
value  it  so  much.  I  was  born  in  San  Quirico,  but  I  don't 
like  Italy.  It  is  my  dream  to  go  to  America."  And 
indeed  it  seemed  possible  that  her  life  at  "The  Two 
Rabbits  "  might  lack  the  elements  of  novelty  and  variety. 
The  emptiness  of  such  inns  as  these  ever  and  anon  sur- 
prises us  afresh.  It  is  as  though  they  were  kept  open 
for  us  alone.  Not  a  sound  comes  from  the  different 
apartments,  not  a  chair  but  ours  is  occupied  in  the  din- 
ing-room. 

It  had  rained  during  luncheon,  and  while  we  waited 
for  it  to  cease  we  leaned  from  the  window  and  looked 
down  into  the  little  street  where  the  gray  of  the  sky 
seemed  to  be  reflected  in  the  paving-stones,  which  glist- 
ened silvery  clean  and  sent  tinkling  drops  into  tiny  clear 
pools  between  their  uneven  edges.  I  suppose  there  is 
hardly  an  inhabitant  of  San  Quirico  who  does  not  know 
every  other;  certainly  the  occasional  passers-by  greeted 


72  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

the  inhabitants  of  the  opposite  house,  or  stood  a  few 
moments,  regardless  of  the  rain,  to  chat  together.  How 
weighty  may  the  affairs  of  such  a  tiny  town  be  ?  But 
then  human  interest  never  lacks  where  even  two  or  three 
human  beings  are  gathered  together,  and  who  knows 
what  thrilling  emotional  dramas  may  be  enacted  in  San 
Quirico  ?  At  length  the  last  slow  drops  had  ceased  and 
our  carriage  came  to  the  door. 

Our  departure  was  an  event  participated  in  by  a 
crowd  that  seemed  to  have  suddenly  collected  as  by 
magic,  and  when  our  artist  decided  to  walk  a  short  dis- 
tance guided  by  the  driver  in  order  to  take  a  photograph 
of  a  little  church  near  by,  the  fact  seemed  to  be  generally 
communicated  in  a  twinkling  and  the  street  filled  from 
wall  to  wall  with  the  populace  of  San  Quirico,  marching 
after  her  to  watch  the  operation.  After  it  was  over  they 
respectfully  fell  apart  and  allowed  her  to  pass  back,  filling 
up  again  solidly  behind  her  and  streaming  after  her  to 
the  carriage.  Here  I  incautiously  gave  the  driver  direc- 
tions aloud  to  go  to  another  church,  and  we  started  off 
at  a  brisk  trot.  This  was  too  much  for  the  younger  por- 
tion of  the  male  population,  who  broke  into  hot  pursuit 
and  caught  up  with  us  promptly  at  the  next  sanctuary ! 

The  last  look  at  San  Quirico  was  one  of  the  pic- 
tures that  a  moment  seems  to  stamp  upon  the  memory — 
a  remembrance  that  winds  itself  about  the  heart  to  carry 
always.  It  was  as  we  paused  after  having  passed  out  of 
its  heavy  gateway — the  gate  itself,  with  its  tower  and 
its  diminishing  line  of  walls  and  roofs,  the  single  cypress 
that  stood  up  silhouetted  against  the  sky,  and  the  beauti- 
ful pair  of  slow-moving  oxen  issuing  from  its  arch,  draw- 
ing their  primitive  cart  and  guided  by  a  curly-locked 
youth,  who  enjoyed  our  appreciative  glances  at  his  charges. 

Through  the  same  quiet  country  as  in  the  morning, 
we  drove  to  Pienza  and  descended  from  the  carriage  in 


DRIVING   THROUGH    TUSCANY  73 

its  empty,  wind-swept  little  piazza,  that  somehow  left 
with  me  the  most  melancholy  impression  that  I  ever 
received  from  a  town  in  Italy.  Perhaps  it  was  partly 
the  gray  afternoon  and  the  bleak  gusts  that  fitfully  whist- 
led through  it  and  seemed  to  buffet  the  twin  columns 
of  its  beautiful  fountain,  but  the  inhabitants  looked 
pinched,  and  poverty  clings  about  the  old  buildings  that 
were  once  so  sumptuous  and  are  now  so  forsaken  and  so 
fast  crumbling  away,  while  grass  and  weeds  sprout  from 
the  walls,  and  not  a  footfall  echoes  in  the  solitude  of  the 
once  magnificent  courts.  Nay,  there  was  one  —  in  that 
of  a  palazzo  into  which  we  strayed,  a  purblind  old  cus- 
todian lay  in  ambush,  and  my  conscience  smites  me  now 
that  I  thoughtlessly  shook  my  head  and  refused  his  offer 
to  show  me  the  interior,  when  I  should  have  given  him 
the  coveted  fee  and  been  grateful  that  I  had  been 
allowed  the  opportunity  to  yield  him  that  small  solace. 

Pope  Pius  II  expended  great  riches  to  render  this, 
his  tiny  native  town,  renamed  for  him,  magnificent,  and 
it  must  have  been  so  in  his  day.  One  can  fancy  the 
pageants  in  the  little  streets,  and  the  importance  and 
bustle  when  the  piazza  with  its  four  noble  buildings  was 
filled  with  the  papal  court.  I  believe  the  mitre  of  the 
great  ^Eneas  Silvius  Piccolomini  still  rests  in  the  cathedral, 
with  its  precious  jewels  glittering  coldly  in  almost  undis- 
turbed seclusion.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  mighty 
prelate  cannot  now  look  down  to  see  the  sad  abandon- 
ment of  the  place  he  loved,  lest  it  should  even  somewhat 
embitter  Paradise.  One  cannot  but  wish  him  peace  and 
satisfaction,  for  first  as  a  scholar  and  wit  and  later  as  a 
devoted  and  single-minded  pontiff,  he  commands  one's 
respect.  His  was  a  many-sided  character,  and  to  the 
lover  of  nature  his  passionate  attachment  to  its  aspects 
renders  him  doubly  sympathetic.  Toward  the  close  of 
his  life,  when  he  could  no  longer  walk,  he  had  himself 


74  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

carried  on  a  litter  to  the  different  points  which  com- 
manded the  views  that  he  loved,  and  tears  filled  his  eyes 
as  he  gazed  upon  the  beauty  which  ravished  his  heart, 
and  yet  which  he  knew  would  soon  fade  forever  from  his 
vision. 

From  Pienza  it  was  but  two  hours  more,  climbing 
higher  and  higher,  to  reach  Montepulciano,  where,  even 
more  than  Siena,  it  "  sits  and  towers  "  upon  its  isolated 
mountain  pedestal.  And  even  when  we  had  entered  its 
gates  and  drawn  up  before  the  Albergo  Marzocco  at  the 
foot  of  its  lion-surmounted  column,  we  did  not  cease 
ascending,  for  the  inn  had  many  floors,  and  we  were  bent 
on  securing  its  finest  outlook.  We  chose  windows  that 
looked  over  half  Tuscany  as  it  seemed  to  us,  where  we 
could  discern  many  a  little  town  perched  upon  neighbor- 
ing hills,  with  mile  after  mile  of  fertile  tilled  ground  on 
the  plain  below,  and  beyond  all  a  circle  of  mountains. 
Three  lakes  also  we  could  count  from  our  windows,  and 
with  such  a  wide  horizon  it  was  pleasure  enough  to  sit 
there  and  watch  the  play  of  sun  and  cloud  over  it  for 
that  evening.  Our  rooms  were  quiet  and  retired.  We 
had  been  given  an  unrestricted  choice,  and  on  our  journey 
of  exploration  we  had  seen  a  little  dining-room  in  one 
of  those  unexpected  locations  not  uncommon  here. 
This  we  fastened  upon  at  once  and  declared  we  must 
be  served  in.  A  round  table  not  too  large  stood  in 
the  centre  and  its  glass  doors  opened  upon  a  terrazzoy 
or  broad  upper  veranda,  that  pleased  us  much.  It 
inspired  us  to  order  dinner  at  once,  but  later,  when  we 
returned  to  eat  it,  the  weather  had  turned  too  cool  for 
the  terrazzOy  and  a  cheerful  little  blaze  leaped  upon  the 
open  hearth,  and  our  landlady's  daughter,  a  comely,  black- 
eyed  girl,  waited  upon  us.  She  took  a  kindly  interest  in  our 
likings  and  dislikings,  praised  this  dish  and  was  doubtful 
of  that,  and  when  we  approved  the  celebrated  vintage 


DRIVING   THROUGH    TUSCANY  75 

of  Montepulciano,  went  to  fetch  some  wine  which  she 
declared  to  be  older  and  better.  She  lingered  beside 
us  at  the  window  after  dinner  was  over,  to  chat,  though 
modestly  declaring  her  conduct  in  so  doing  to  be  too 
presuming;  but  when  she  had,  on  further  encouragement 
from  us,  talked  animatedly  for  a  while,  she  suddenly 
checked  herself  with  the  remark: — 

"  The  Signorina,"  indicating  the  youngest  member 
of  our  trio,  "  thinks  a  great  deal.  She  thinks  more  than 
she  talks,  does  she  not  ?" 

I  assented  to  her  observation. 

"Ah ! "  she  said,  lightly  sighing,  "  I  am  not  seri- 
ous myself,  but  I  always  admire  serious  people." 

In  the  morning  the  sun  shone  brightly  and  only 
enough  soft  white  masses  and  streaming  ribbons  of  cloud 
were  left  from  the  heavy  sky  of  the  day  before  to  make 
the  blue  vault  overhead  perfect.  We  dawdled  over  our 
coffee,  took  an  interest  in  the  garden  of  the  convent 
school  opposite,  and  breakfasted  as  well  upon  the  delic- 
ious view  spread  out  before  us  in  all  the  freshness  of  its 
recent  rain-bath.  Even  the  asperity  of  the  heraldic  lion 
on  the  column  outside  our  entrance  was  softened  by  the 
beauty  of  the  morning,  and  we  thought  he  glanced  at  us 
indulgently  as  we  wandered  forth  and  began  to  mount 
the  main  street  as  it  takes  its  upward  course,  following 
the  irregular  comb  of  the  ridge  on  which  Montepulciano 
is  built.  Fine  old  palaces  line  it,  and  each  short  cross- 
street  leads  out  to  the  low  parapet  of  the  city  wall  and 
an  enchanting  view. 

It  is  interesting  to  study  the  fa9ades  of  these  homes 
of  old  historic  families,  and  we  explored  as  far  as  we 
thought  we  might  venture  to,  the  palazzo  of  Poliziano, 
famous  humanist  and  poet,  which  is  however  one  of  the 
least  conspicuous.  Passing  for  some  distance  beyond  this 
palazzo  one  comes  to  a  flight  of  stairs  and  makes  the  last 


76  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

ascent  to  the  Piazza  Grande  where  stands  the  cathedral. 
There  is  an  inexpressible  charm  to  the  whole  progress  and 
we  gained  a  certain  familiarity  with  it  by  making  it  fre- 
quently, even  though  our  stay  was  short.  Wandering 
breeze  and  open  sunlight  are  the  characteristics  of  this 
high-hung,  hoary  old  square,  with  its  rugged  cathedral, 
its  fine  fountain  and  its  noble  palaces.  The  latter,  once 
abodes  of  the  proud  and  wealthy,  are  now,  though  still 
retaining  their  external  impressiveness,  evidently  divided 
within  for  the  use  of  various  families  much  humbler  in 
rank.  Loth  to  leave  the  open  air,  we  sat  upon  the 
broad  steps  of  the  cathedral,  which  are  of  the  width  of 
its  whole  front,  and  let  our  eyes  travel  over  the  mellow 
fa9ade  of  the  Palazzo  Tarugi  opposite,  with  its  graceful 
corner  loggia  opening  on  the  street,  just  outside  of  which 
and  fashioned  of  the  same  warm-tinted  stone,  stands  the 
fine  fountain  with  its  quaint  symbolic  beasts  poised  on 
the  crossbeams  surmounting  its  pair  of  pillars. 

Before  an  open  casement  on  the  second  story  sat  an 
old  couple  with  gentle,  placid  faces,  enjoying,  as  we  were 
doing,  the  clear  sunlight  and  the  balmy  air.  Were  they 
happy  in  the  mild,  uneventful  evening  of  their  days  ? 
They  looked  too  frail  to  be  often  tempted  forth  into  the 
town  with  its  rugged  streets  and  byways.  What  were 
their  pleasures,  what  their  musings,  so  limited  and  tran- 
quil ?  Could  wanderers,  such  as  we,  divine  the  simplicity 
of  their  lives,  the  narrow  bounds  within  which  they  were 
probably  content,  the  slender  means  that  sufficed  for  their 
unambitious  wants?  For  a  long  time  no  other  human 
life  appeared  in  the  piazza,  but  then  a  figure  of  quite 
another  type  entered  it  and  crossed  toward  the  cathedral 
entrance.  It  was  a  priest,  tall,  erect,  handsome,  young  in 
spite  of  his  white  hair,  with  a  face  which  indicated  a  high 
degree  of  intelligence  and  a  bearing  which  showed  ease 
and  polish.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  met  a  man  who 


DRIVING    THROUGH    TUSCANY  77 

had  meanwhile  turned  a  near  angle  of  the  building,  and 
stopped  to  speak  with  him.  I  could  not  overhear  the 
interview,  but  by  the  rustic  embarrassment  of  the  second 
and  the  mischievous  smiles  of  the  priest  it  was  easy  to 
guess  at  the  good-humored  banter  that  was  inaudible.  It 
was  a  diverting  and  characteristic  little  scene  and  it 
ended  in  a  playful  grasp  of  the  man's  arm  by  the  priest, 
who,  as  the  other  pulled  awkwardly  away,  laughed  jovi- 
ally and  in  a  tone  loud  enough  to  be  overheard  exclaimed, 
"Oh,  come  along,  and  let  me  convert  you  a  little  !" 

There  are  delightful  rambles  about  Montepulciano, 
and  in  the  afternoon  when  shadows  begin  to  grow  long 
it  is  well  to  descend  to  San  Biagio,  the  imposing  church 
designed  by  Sangallo,  and  to  sit  on  the  great  sweep  of 
soft  turf  that  stretches  about  it,  thickly  sprinkled  with 
'  white  daisies,  and  see  opposite  the  colonnaded  house  of 
the  famous  architect  and  all  the  sweet  country  that 
spreads  beyond,  climbing  up  again  to  the  eyrie  of  Monte- 
pulciano by  a  winding  road  partly  shaded  by  arching 
trees,  as  the  evening  coolness  comes  on.  In  little  towns 
like  these  one  speaks  to  the  rural  people  one  meets  in 
taking  a  walk,  and  they  have  so  many  pretty  ways  of 
returning  salutations.  "  Good  evening,"  we  say.  "Good 
evening  to  your  ladyships  in  return,"  they  reply.  "A 
happy  night — sweet  rest  to  you!"  And  all  with  such  a 
cordial  courtesy. 

The  pleasure  we  had  experienced  in  traveling  by 
carriage  induced  us  to  continue  our  journey  in  the  same 
way,  and  a  conveyance  was  found  in  a  stable  close  by  to 
carry  us  on  to  Cortona.  The  morning  was  warm  and 
sunny  and  we  made  the  transit  in  much  comfort,  after 
which  we  lunched  poorly  in  a  little  restaurant  where 
importunate  cats  reminded  us  of  their  presence  by  pain- 
ful clawings  if  we  did  not  bestow  a  share  of  our  food  upon 
them  with  sufficient  frequency.  As  the  steep  streets  of 


78  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

Cortona  are  ill  calculated  for  driving,  we  obtained  the 
services  of  a  rather  forbidding  guide,  but  though  at  first 
our  spirits  were  a  little  clouded  by  his  uncongenial  com- 
panionship, we  soon  forgot  it  in  the  delight  of  the  pic- 
tures he  conducted  us  to,  and  when  we  had  looked  at 
these  and  dismissed  him  we  could  stray  at  will  wherever 
inclination  suggested. 

It  was  a  wild  afternoon,  with  a  fitful  wind  coming 
in  sudden  gusts  and  a  sky  full  of  mighty  billows  of  gray 
cloud.  From  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  upon  which 
the  little  town  clings  we  could  look  down  upon  the  plain 
which  was  misty  purple  in  the  weird  light  that  seemed  to 
rest  upon  everything.  In  the  distance  toward  the  south 
a  bit  of  Lake  Trasimeno  lay  in  sight,  with  a  perpendicu- 
lar shaft  of  white  light  descending  upon  it,  while  about 
us  all  was  blackness.  I  could  not  help  thinking  it  all 
looked  like  a  preparation  for  the  end  of  the  world. 
Highest  and  last  of  all  above  us  lay  the  ruins  of  the 
forfezza.  Climbing  toward  it  we  found  an  old  man 
standing  in  the  path,  and  on  our  asking  him  if  we  could 
be  admitted  he  called  to  a  girl  who  was  tending  a  few 
goats  not  far  off  and  bade  her  fetch  the  key  and 
accompany  us.  She  came  running  with  it  presently,  a 
wild  creature,  almost  as  sylvan  as  her  goats,  and  led  us 
up.  For  all  the  chilly  wind  she  seemed  but  half-clothed. 
Her  scanty  dark  wool  skirt  came  a  little  below  her  knees, 
beneath  which  her  legs  and  feet  were  bare.  A  bit  of 
drapery  was  drawn  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  kerchief 
knotted  about  her  head  confined  her  blowing  hair. 

The  sombre  bulk  of  the  old  castle  was  brightened 
by  masses  of  golden  wall-flower  that  hung  from  crevices 
and  sprang  from  the  tops  of  crumbling  walls.  I  had 
never  before  seen  it  in  the  habitat  from  which  it  received 
its  name,  and  its  warm  color  and  familiar  sweetness 
brought  a  touch  of  warmth  into  the  bleak  surroundings. 


DRIVING   THROUGH    TUSCANY  79 

Our  goat-herd  conducted  us  within  the  walls,  and  clam- 
bering lightly  up  the  remains  of  the  outer  bastion  showed 
us  a  favorable  perch  where  we  could  rest  and  gaze  out 
over  the  country  spread  below  us.  She  told  us  the  few 
facts  she  knew  concerning  the  castle,  and  when  we  ques- 
tioned her  a  little  readily  talked  of  herself.  She  was 
alone  in  the  world,  she  said.  The  old  man  and  his  wife 
below  were  no  relatives  of  hers  but  she  lived  with  them 
and  minded  the  goats.  That  was  her  life.  She  added 
that  she  was  not  strong,  and  touched  her  chest  —  the 
trouble  was  there.  She  was  thirty  years  old  now,  but 
could  not  work  hard.  She  had  no  one  to  love  her  and 
she  loved  no  one  —  perhaps  it  was  better  so,  for  there  was 
no  pain  of  parting  for  her,  "  And  when  we  love,  Signora, 
we  must  suffer."  She  spoke  gravely  but  not  sorrowfully, 
and  yet  her  solitariness  touched  one's  heart,  and  we  lin- 
gered with  her  and  almost  forgot  the  waning  afternoon. 
When  on  parting  I  gave  her  her  fee,  divided  in  such  a 
way  that  she  might,  if  she  were  called  on,  hand  over  a  small 
sum  to  her  old  master,  but  keep  the  larger  for  herself, 
she  thanked  us  civilly,  and  yet  appeared  to  set  light  store 
by  the  money,  and  ran  from  us  toward  her  goats  with  a 
quick  adieu  when  we  had  turned  downward  over  the  brow 
of  the  hill. 

AREZZO. 

"  Over  the  roofs  o*  the  lighted  church  I  looked 
A  bow-shot  to  the  street's  end,  north,  away 
Out  of  the  Roman  gate  to  the  Roman  road, 
By  the  river,  till  I  felt  the  Apennine, 
Aiid  there  would  lie  Arezzo."     .     .     . 

BROWNING.      The  Ring  and  the  Book. 

It  was  nearly  seven  when  we  reached  the  station  of 
Arezzo,  and  as  we  descended  from  the  train  an  aged 


80  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

porter  begged  to  be  allowed  to  carry  our  handbags. 
They  were  not  burdensome,  but  at  his  renewed  solicita- 
tions we  yielded  them  up  to  him,  since  the  earning  of  the 
four  cents  appeared  to  be  such  a  vital  matter.  He  car- 
ried them  across  the  station. 

"  We  are  going  to  the  Inghilterra,"  said  I. 

"Oh  very  well,  you  won't  need  a  carriage  to  go 
there,"  he  returned ;  "  it  is  but  a  step,  and  I  will  go  with 
you  myself.  It  would  take  five  minutes  to  get  a  car- 
riage." 

"  But  there  are  two  larger  pieces  of  luggage  regis- 
tered," said  I,  "  quite  too  heavy  for  you." 

He  took  the  checks  and  hobbled  off,  presently 
reappearing  with  another  old  man.  Number  Two  had 
the  heavier  bags  on  a  large  handcart,  but  the  small  ones 
were  still  borne  by  our  first  porter.  I  began  to  be 
amused  and  checked  the  inquiry  as  to  why  one  porter 
could  not  easily  carry  the  four  bags  on  a  handcart  of 
that  size,  or  half  that  size,  for  the  matter  of  that.  So  we 
took  up  our  line  of  march,  forming  a  little  procession, 
with  the  handcart  leading. 

We  passed  out  of  the  station  door,  and  behold, 
there  were  plenty  of  carriages,  though  our  porter  was 
unabashed  before  this  proof  of  his  misrepresentation. 
The  drivers  fairly  yearned  to  secure  us.  They  did  not 
shout  and  vociferate  as  in  America,  but  approached 
us  with  a  confidential  manner,  a  secret,  furtive  air. 
They  made  bids  against  one  another  for  our  patron- 
age, and  as  we  started  away  one  cried,  "You  and 
all  your  luggage  for  one  lira  !  "  When  we  failed  to 
accept  this  offer  he  groaned  aloud  and  whipped  his 
horse  away,  for  there  appeared  to  be  no  other  pas- 
senger that  night.  We  were  aware  that  our  old  f act M** 
had  checkmated  the  cabmen,  and  it  became  evident 
that  we  were  included  in  his  victory,  for  it  was  not 


BORGO.     A  STREET. 


DRIVING   THROUGH    TUSCANY  81 

one  step,  but  a  great  many,  to  the  hotel.  I  forgot 
to  mention,  by  the  way,  that,  as  there  had  been  a 
shower,  we  stopped  just  before  leaving  the  station  to 
put  on  our  overshoes.  This  attracted  universal  atten- 
tion, and  some  ten  or  twelve  men  in  the  station  hastened 
up  and  with  a  simple  and  single-minded  curiosity 
they  took  not  the  slightest  pains  to  disguise  formed 
a  respectful  semicircle  round  us  and  solemnly  watched 
us  draw  them  on.  At  last  we  reached  the  hotel  and  at 
the  door  our  two  porters  had  a  misunderstanding,  accom- 
panied by  some  vivacious  swearing.  Neither,  however, 
appeared  to  triumph,  and  they  followed  us  upstairs,  going 
from  room  to  room  with  us  as  we  inspected  the  various 
ones  offered  and  made  a  choice.  When  we  were  estab- 
lished I  inquired, — 

"  How  much  do  you  expect  ?  " 

"Only  two  lire,  one  apiece  for  us,"  the  first  re- 
sponded cheerfully. 

"  That  is  too  much,"  said  I. 

"  Very  well,"  he  rejoined  promptly ;  "  one  and  a 
half." 

We  paid  it,  having  derived  sufficient  entertainment 
from  hisjinesse  to  amply  repay  us  for  a  small  outlay,  and 
as  he  contentedly  departed  we  agreed  that  we  were  strongly 
reminded  of  the  old  tale  of  the  Irishman  and  the  sedan- 
chair,  to  be  adapted  in  our  case  as  follows  :  "  Drive  up 
to  the  hotel  for  twenty  cents,  or  walk  up  for  thirty." 
Our  already  cheerful  frame  of  mind  was  further  pro- 
moted by  finding  no  lack  of  comfort  in  this  hostelry. 
Like  many  of  those  in  the  smaller  places  it  bore  a  name 
of  magnitude  and  importance,  to  wit  — "  Grand  Hotel 
Royal  of  England,  formerly  The  Golden  Key."  It 
afforded  us  spacious  rooms,  an  excellent  dinner,  and  good 
service,  and  we  recked  little  of  the  rain  which  beat  against 
our  windows  that  evening,  as  we  sat  with  our  books  be- 


82  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

side  a  sociable  little  fire  which  chirped  and  crackled  in  a 
way  to  keep  any  traveler  in  spirits. 

For  so  small  a  town,  Arezzo  enjoys  the  distinction 
of  having  given  birth  to  an  astonishing  number  of  celeb- 
rities. Here  the  oft-quoted  Micsenas  flourished,  Pe- 
trarch, the  bard  of  faithful  lovers,  first  saw  the  light  in 
number  twenty-two  of  the  Street  of  Gardens,  as  a  long 
inscription  upon  its  front  informs  the  passer-by,  but  he 
has  waited  now  some  six  hundred  years  for  the  monu- 
ment which  it  is  said  the  citizens  of  Arezzo  fully  intend 
to  erect  to  him  near  this  spot.  Pietro  Aretino,  that 
foul-mouthed  satirist  and  impassioned  lover  of  beautiful 
sunsets,  grew  up  here,  and  besides  several  well-known 
artists,  Vasari,  the  biographer  of  artists,  here  came  into 
the  world.  It  will  be  easily  seen  therefore  that  Arezzo 
has  abundant  claims  to  consideration,  and  yet  it  failed  to 
attract  us  as  did  the  beautiful  country  that  lies  about  and 
beyond  it.  Perhaps  our  minds  were  now  too  eagerly 
bent  upon  rambles  in  the  mountains  at  whose  very  gate 
we  stood,  and  we  were  impatient  to  traverse  the  wooing 
distances  of  the  Val  di  Chiana,  climb  the  heights  and 
draw  deep  breaths  among  the  lonely  swelling  chains  of 
the  Apennines. 

The  Apennines !  there  is  something  in  the  very 
name  that  lays  a  grasp  on  one  and  sets  the  imagination 
groping  among  the  sensations  and  suggestions  that  stir 
at  the  mention  of  it.  Are  they  mournful,  those  wide- 
stretching,  often  treeless  and  infertile  ridges  ?  Are  they 
desolate,  those  wind-lashed  clinging  trees  that  grasp  the 
steeps  ?  Do  they  but  frown,  those  cliffs  and  battlements 
of  inflexible  rock  ?  I  do  not  know.  They  seem  to  hold 
the  key  of  every  mood.  They  can  meet  intimately  the 
spirit  that  is  stricken,  they  can  stimulate  fortitude  in  the 
soul  that  is  tried,  they  can  clear  the  vision  of  eyes  that 
are  obscured,  and  in  their  hidden  folds  are  quiet  valleys 


DRIVING   THROUGH    TUSCANY  83 

and  the  murmur  of  streams.  And  so  Arezzo  did  not 
hold  us  long.  We  slipped  from  her  gate  and  journeyed 
onward  and  upward. 

BORGO    SAN    SEPOLCRO. 

We  started  toward  Borgo  San  Sepolcro  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  in  the  pigmy  omnibus  train, 
pulled  gayly  along  by  a  droll  little  teapot  of  a  locomo- 
tive. It  was  a  very  democratic  company  and  there  were 
no  divisions  into  class  compartments,  but  the  whole  car 
open,  which  is  not  common  here.  A  man  with  Venetian 
glass  toys  for  sale  walked  sociably  about  showing  them 
to  interested  groups  of  contadini.  Opposite  us  sat  a 
sweet-faced  young  woman,  evidently  hardly  able  to 
travel.  We  fancied  her  as  having  been  to  a  great  city 
like  Arezzo  to  consult  the  doctor,  and  now  the  young 
farmer-husband  was  taking  her  home  to  the  mountains. 
It  pleased  us  to  see  how  tender  he  was  of  her,  and  how 
carefully  he  supported  her  with  his  arm  and  tried  to  keep 
her  from  feeling  the  jarring  of  the  train.  She  had  a 
smiling  happy  expression,  and  gave  him  glances  of  loving 
appreciation  in  return  for  his  protecting  care. 

We  made  our  way  upward  through  narrow  ascend- 
ing valleys,  the  woods  and  hedgerows,  the  little  farms  and 
villages  all  looking  so  fresh  and  sparkling  in  the  sunset 
light,  as  the  rays  were  caught  and  reflected  in  the  drops 
left  hanging  by  a  recent  shower.  In  two  hours  we  had 
reached  Borgo.  It  was  dark,  and  we  sought  the  little 
Albergo  Fiorentino  with  some  misgivings.  We  lean 
upon  our  trusty  Baedeker,  and  when  there  is  a  starred 
hotel  in  any  town  we  feel  secure,  but  when  a  bare  men- 
tion in  brackets  is  all  that  is  accorded,  it  leaves  a  painful 
doubt  in  the  mind  and  lands  one  at  once  among  the 
uncertainties  of  exploration.  When,  however,  things 


84  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

turn  out  as  well  as  they  did  in  Borgo,  one  has  a  feeling 
of  triumph.  The  smiling  landlady  took  us  through  the 
dining-room  to  a  large  clean  bedroom,  of  curiously 
irregular  shape,  to  fit  the  crooked  line  of  the  street  its 
boundaries  followed,  with  many  colored  Scriptural  prints 
on  the  walls  and  an  abundance  of  furniture  and  orna- 
ment that  suggested  its  being  the  only  apartment  of 
consequence  in  the  house.  In  a  short  time  a  good  supper 
was  prepared  and  we  had  it  by  ourselves  in  the  dining- 
room,  which  became  exclusively  ours  upon  our  arrival, 
after  which  we  went  to  bed,  with  great  satisfaction  in  the 
comfort  and  neatness  of  our  surroundings. 

In  the  sunny  morning  we  sallied  forth  to  explore 
the  town  and  see  the  Piero  della  Francesca  frescoes. 
There  was  no  disillusion  in  either  one  or  the  other  and 
we  felt  more  than  repaid  for  our  pilgrimage  to  the  home 
of  this  great  master,  of  such  noble  originality  even  in  an 
age  when  genius  unfolded  itself  everywhere  throughout 
Italy.  We  sat  long  before  his  fresco  of  the  Resurrec- 
tion, which  is  the  finest  and  most  dignified  representation 
of  the  Christ  I  have  ever  seen.  Afterwards  there  was 
time  to  become  acquainted  with  the  outward  aspect  of  his 
native  town,  as  we  strolled  about,  unmolested  by  guides 
or  beggars.  Although  a  long  way  from  Rome,  which 
somehow  seems  to  claim  the  whole  river,  Borgo  is  in  the 
upper  valley  of  the  Tiber,  which  instead  of  being  a 
murky  yellow  flood,  as  it  is  when  it  passes  through  the 
Eternal  City,  is  here  a  clear  beautiful  stream,  winding 
through  flowery  meadows,  with  the  peaks  of  the  higher 
Apennines  in  sight  above  it.  Lying  in  this  valley,  Borgo 
is  flat,  although  its  altitude  is  considerable.  Its  gray 
stone  walls  are  in  many  places  overgrown  with  vines  and 
a  bit  of  vineyard  or  olive  grove  often  borders  them  on  the 
inner  side. 

In  a  quiet  garden-like  piazza  before  the  principal 


DRIVING    THROUGH    TUSCANY  85 

church,  where  old  men  sat  contentedly  sunning  them- 
selves and  babies  played  quietly  and  amicably,  rises,  on  a 
tall  pedestal,  the  statue  of  Piero.  Opposite  it  stands 
the  most  important  palazzo  of  the  place,  belonging  to 
Count  Collacchine,  where  we  were  allowed  to  enter  and 
see  the  figure  of  the  youthful  Hercules  painted  by  the 
great  artist  upon  one  of  its  walls.  The  house  was  silent 
and  so  was  the  respectful  man-servant  who  showed  us 
over  it,  and  though  everything  was  in  perfect  order  we 
could  not  help  wondering  whether  the  Count  found  little 
slumberous  Borgo  attractive  enough  to  keep  him  often 
within  its  walls  for  a  length  of  time.  In  the  main  piazza 
of  the  town,  round  which  at  the  roots  of  old  stone  edi- 
fices little  shops  clustered,  stood  a  tall  detached  tower, 
solid  and  square,  the  Tower  of  Bertha,  they  told  us. 
The  entrance  was  closed,  but  on  asking  whether  we  might 
mount  it  we  received  ready  permission.  We  loitered 
about  for  some  minutes  and  then  began  to  be  much  sur- 
prised at  the  important  preparations  being  made  for  our 
ascension.  A  man  with  bright  red  hair  and  two  able- 
bodied  youths  of  darker  complexion  were  making  lan- 
terns ready  and  girding  themselves  as  though  for  an 
arduous  undertaking.  We  looked  at  one  another  in 
some  wonder.  We  had  climbed  many  towers,  often  with- 
out a  guide  at  all,  never  with  more  than  one.  We  con- 
cluded curious  travelers  were  so  infrequent  in  Borgo  that 
the  largest  possible  number  of  fees  was  to  be  made  out 
of  us. 

Presently  the  big  door  was  unlocked,  disclosing  a 
seldom-used  cobwebby  interior,  up  whose  stairs  we  began 
to  toil.  These  solid  steps,  however,  soon  ended,  and 
we  then  recognized  the  practical  need  of  three  guides. 
Gazing  upward  through  the  scantily  lighted  well  of  the 
interior,  we  discerned  wide  gaps,  crazy-looking  supports, 
and  unsteady  ladders  of  flimsy  construction.  Caution 


86  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

counseled  retreat,  but  ardor  and  curiosity  urged  advance. 
We  faltered  but  a  moment ;  there  could  be  no  real  danger 
or  the  guides  would  not  so  willingly  risk  their  own  safety, 
and  we  proceeded.  The  lantern  lighted  us  across  black 
gaps  of  nothingness  which  we  had  to  span,  the  dark 
youths  tried  to  hold  firm  the  rickety  ladders,  and  all 
three  encouraged  us  by  word  and  gesture  to  persevere. 
They  seemed  to  experience  quite  a  lively  satisfaction  at 
getting  us  to  the  top  uninjured  and  informed  us  that 
the  last  party  who  began  the  ascent  had  given  out  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs ;  indeed  the  Signore  were  the  first  ladies 
they  had  ever  conveyed  to  the  summit !  We  concluded 
when  we  had  recovered  our  breath  that  the  view  was 
worth  the  risk,  if  risk  there  had  been,  and  found  the 
red-haired  man  an  intelligent  and  willing  informer.  We 
scrutinized  the  mountain  peaks,  the  distant  villages,  the 
nearer  suburbs,  and  he  was  ready  with  anecdote  and  ex- 
planation upon  them  all.  But  in  the  end  our  closest 
attention  centred  itself  upon  the  clustered  houses  di- 
rectly below  us. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  roofs  of  Italy  have  ever 
been  greatly  enlarged  upon,  but  for  charm  and  beckon- 
ing mystery  and  provoking  conjecture  what  minor  feature 
can  equal  them?  The  infinite  variety  of  colors  and 
shadings  with  which  time  has  painted  the  old  tiles,  the 
absolute  irregularity  of  line  everywhere,  the  pots  of 
flowering  plants  that  peep  from  attic  windows,  the  bird- 
cages that  cling  to  the  walls,  the  wild  blossoming  growths 
that  spring  from  eaves  and  cracks,  and  the  frequency  of 
little  unexpected  roof-gardens,  where,  up  beyond  observa- 
tion from  below,  much  of  the  family  life  goes  on, —  all 
combine  to  create  an  impression  of  oneness  and  intimacy 
that  strikes  the  foreigner,  unaccustomed  to  a  contact  so 
immediate.  The  narrowness  of  the  streets,  with  their 
inconsequent  twists  and  turnings,  brings  the  roofs  to- 


DRIVING   THROUGH    TUSCANY  87 

gether  and  crowds  them  into  one  focus,  so  that  from  a 
height  they  appear  hardly  divided  by  more  than  unim- 
portant cracks ;  and  seeing  them  thus,  their  warm,  red, 
uneven  surface  seems  to  close  down  upon  and  hold 
together  the  collective  life  of  the  town,  and  make  its 
existence  as  that  of  one  large  wide-spreading  family. 

A  woman's  head  appears  at  a  window  and  a  merry 
voice  casts  a  greeting  across  to  a  neighbor,  a  girl  steps 
out  among  the  potted  plants  in  the  roof-garden  and  ex- 
amines their  growth  and  their  needs,  a  cat  slips  swiftly 
along  the  eaves  and  disappears  noiselessly  within  a  tiny 
open  casement.  The  minutest  evidence  of  life  seems 
full  of  meaning — a  sentence,  a  phrase  suggests  a  history 
that  might  be  warm  with  vivid  interest  if  one  could  but 
seize  the  volume  and  fasten  upon  the  page.  Many  an 
hour  of  happy  idleness  may  one  spend,  leaning  from  the 
top  of  a  tower  like  this  and  dreaming  of  the  past  or 
speculating  upon  the  present  of  a  tranquil,  immutable 
little  place  such  as  Borgo  San  Sepolcro- 


APRIL  IN  THE  MARCHES 

Qui  dove  arride  i  fortunati  clivi 
Perenne  Aprile  e  Paure  molli  odora 
E  ondeggian  messi  e  placido  d*  olivi 
Bosco  s  'infioriva.  .  .  . 

—  CARDUCCI. 


T  rained  hard  all  the  morning  and 
had  not  abated  at  noon  when  we 
took  the  train  for  Ancona,  to  trav- 
erse the  remainder  of  the  way 
through  the  Umbrian  Apennines 
and  at  the  end  of  the  day  sweep 
down  to  the  very  shore  of  the 
Adriatic.  Oh  what  tantalizing  little 
towns  did  we  not  see  upon  the 
way !  It  well  nigh  tempted  us  to  cast  ourselves  forth 
from  the  car  windows  in  despair  at  being  whirled  past 
them.  Hanging  upon  the  sharpest  ridges,  or  piled  street 
over  street  on  hills  above  us,  these  clusters  of  brownish 
stone  walls  rising  out  of  the  soil  seemed  more  like  growths 
of  nature  than  habitations  evoked  by  man.  The  com- 

Eact  mass  is  always  presided  over  by  its  church,  or  rather 
y  its  churches,  for  however  inconsiderable  a  place  may 
be,  there  are  many.  In  one  hamlet,  so  small  that  it 
looked  as  though  one  could  make  the  circuit  of  its  walls 
on  foot  in  fifteen  minutes,  we  counted  five  in  sight,  and 
there  is  no  variety  of  denomination — no  disagreement 

88 


APRIL  IN   THE  MARCHES  89 

as  to  the  true  faith — they  are  all  of  the  one  mighty  Ro- 
man sect,  not  as  powerful  as  it  was  but  ever  present  still. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on  the  rain  stopped  and 
though  the  sky  was  still  black  we  left  the  train  at  Jesi 
to  spend  a  few  hours  among  its  antiquities.  Choosing 
one  of  the  well-worn  little  carriages  at  the  station  (it  is 
well  to  observe  whether  the  horses  have  straight  legs 
and  the  driver  an  intelligent  face),  we  drove  across  the 
intervening  space  and  mounted  to  the  city  walls,  their 
irregular  height  showing  deep  red  with  the  warm  tones 
of  old  brick  wet  with  recent  rain.  To  say  they  were  of 
brick  instead  of  stone  seems  at  first  to  lessen  their  im- 
portance, but  after  seeing  that  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  the 
most  prodigious  and  imposing  ruins  of  Rome,  are  of 
brick  yet  nearly  two  thousand  years  old,  one  realizes 
that  their  indestructibility  hardly  falls  behind  that  of  the 
eternal  rocks.  Besides,  the  walls  of  Jesi  are  not  now 
mere  fortifications,  but  in  the  upper  reaches  of  their  sur- 
face display  the  most  enchanting  irregularity  of  line  and 
projection.  Windows  have  been  cut  at  different  heights, 
roofs  crop  up  in  varying  altitudes,  so  that  the  wall  itself 
seems  thickly  populated,  every  few  feet  illustrating  the 
tastes  and  necessities  of  the  various  families  who  look 
down  upon  the  passer-by  like  bank-swallows  from  their 
cliff.  Now  and  then  a  massive  round  tower  forms  an 
oriel  for  this  extended  family  mansion,  whose  united  base 
sweeps  outward  in  a  fine  curve  toward  the  foundation. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  all  the  world  was  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  respite  after  the  rain  to  walk  abroad ;  and 
as  usual  there  was  complete  division  of  the  sexes.  The 
girls  and  women  strolled  together  arm  in  arm,  in  twos, 
threes,  or  even  fours ;  the  young  men  were  in  groups  by 
themselves.  The  women,  even  when  they  are  very  well 
dressed,  wear  no  hats  unless  they  are  distinctly  of  the 
upper  class.  What  a  saving  in  the  expense  of  millinery ! 


90  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

The  babies  are  swaddled  tightly  just  as  they  were  a  thou- 
sand years  ago,  and  can  be  handled  as  though  they  were 
unjointed  wooden  dolls.  One  is  at  first  inclined  to  pity 
their  discomfort  but  I  never  see  one  crying ;  indeed  it 
is  remarkable  how  seldom  one  hears  Italian  children  cry, 
even  when  in  the  neighborhood  of  dozens. 

The  life  of  the  place  seemed  to  be  all  at  the  entrance 
of  the  town  and  just  outside  the  walls,  for  the  city  had 
overflowed  a  little  and  there  were  buildings  beyond  the 
gates.  Once  inside  and  threading  the  narrow  streets,  it 
became  a  solemn,  dark  gray  solitude.  The  damp  stone 
walls  took  the  color  of  the  sky  overhead,  and  the  noise 
of  our  wheels  upon  the  wet  stones  was  for  some  time  the 
only  sound.  At  the  left  of  one  side-street  a  graceful 
bronze  wreath  on  the  second  story  encircled  the  name 
of  Pergolese  and  brought  singing  to  the  ear  the  exquisite 
simplicity  of  his  eighteenth  century  music.  What  a 
pleasant  custom,  this  of  commemorating  the  former 
dwelling-places  of  the  great  who  are  gone!  It  keeps 
something  of  their  living  presence  fresh  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  tread  the  same  places  in  these  later  days. 
Coming  out  just  after  this  upon  the  main  piazza,  we 
found  ourselves  face  to  face  with  a  marble  tablet,  upon 
which  was  another  inscription  even  more  interesting. 
Translated,  it  read  something  as  follows : — 

"  In  this  place,  once  the  seat  of  the  Holy 
Inquisition,  to-day  a  hall  of  secular  study — 
to  Giordano  Bruno,  apostle  of  liberal  thought, 
victim  of  priestly  tyranny,  the  citizens  of 
this  municipality  place  this  memorial" 

It  was  surprising  to  see  the  publicity  of  this  sentiment  in 
a  little  town  in  the  interior  of  a  country  still  stanchly 
Roman  Catholic  in  its  belief. 


JESI.     THE  CITY  WALL. 


APRIL   IN   THE    MARCHES 


91 


We  had  been  advised  to  see  Jesi  for  its  beautiful 
old  palaces,  and  coming  upon  an  unusually  extensive 
one,  through  whose  broad  arched  entrance  we  could  see 
a  flowery  garden,  we  alighted  and  asked  if  we  might 
step  inside.  Just  within  the  arch  was  the  contrast  so 
often  to  be  met  in  these  places,  the  emerging  from  a 
shadowed  street  to  light,  air,  fragrant  flower-beds,  and 
a  widely  extended  view  from  a  noble  terrace,  looking 
beyond  the  city  walls.  A  courteous  elderly  man  and 
woman,  evidently  old  family  servants,  responsible  and 
intelligent,  made  us  welcome  in  the  garden  and  told  us 
of  the  great  days  the  palace  had  seen  in  the  past.  We 
thought  its  present  state  of  mellow  decay,  the  varied  tints 
of  its  walls,  the  crumbling,  mossy  stone  of  its  balustrades, 
was  doubtless  more  picturesque,  but  we  listened  sympa- 
thetically as  the  woman,  in  a  singularly  sweet  voice,  wist- 
fully regretted  that  the  present  members  of  the  family 
now  no  longer  came  to  stop  in  Jesi ;  when  they  visited 
the  neighborhood  it  was  to  stay  at  a  villa  outside  in  the 
country ;  indeed  part  of  the  palace  was  even  let  to  ten- 
ants, and  she  glanced  up  at  the  exterior  of  it,  which 
enclosed  the  garden  excepting  toward  the  terrace,  not 
squarely  but  in  a  finely-curved  ellipse.  She  gathered 
sweet  old-fashioned  flowers  for  us  as  she  talked,  and 
made  them  into  nosegays  which  she  presented  to  each 
of  us  as  we  came  away,  adding  a  pleasant  wish  that  we 
might  come  again  to  Jesi,  a  sentiment  which  we  shared 
with  her,  experiencing  a  warmth  of  feeling  in  regard  to 
it  that  she  could  hardly  know. 

ANCONA     AND     LORETO. 

Ancona,  though  one  is  reluctant  to  confess  it  of  any 
place  in  Italy,  was  somewhat  disappointing.  Its  situation 
is  beautiful,  its  two  bold  promontories  sweep  finely  out 


92  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

into  the  Adriatic,  Trajan's  triumphal  arch  faces  the  sea 
impressively,  and  yet  what  interested  us  most  was  the 
tiny  Crivelli  Madonna  in  the  Museum,  like  a  miniature 
for  size  and  perfection  of  finish.  We  studied  it  long 
and  admired  its  exquisite  enamel-like  color  yet  con- 
cluded not  to  spend  a  second  night  in  Ancona  but  to 
take  advantage  of  the  bright  afternoon  to  drive  on  the 
eighteen  miles  to  Loreto,  that  sacred  abode  of  the  Virgin 
and  resort  of  all  pious  pilgrims. 

Rolling  hills  begin  to  swell  away  almost  from  the 
brink  of  the  Adriatic,  and  our  spirits  rose  with  every  rod 
of  the  first  gentle  ascent.  Everything  was  so  placid  and 
lovely — the  turquoise  blue  of  the  sea,  the  soft  young 
green  of  the  grain  and  grass,  the  scarlet  splashes  of  the 
frequent  poppies,  even  the  smooth  white  surface  of 
the  winding,  mounting  road — all  charmed  us.  On  the 
last  steep  rise  before  reaching  Loreto  children  were  busily 
searching  in  the  hedges,  and  we  asked  our  driver  what 
they  were  collecting  in  the  deep  cups  they  carried.  It 
turned  out  to  be  snails  for  eating. 

"  I  suppose  they  are  very  good  ? "  I  asked. 

"Signora,  they  are  an  exquisite  food,"  said  our 
driver,  and  then  explained  with  gusto  the  method  of 
treating  them,  the  number  of  days  they  must  be  kept  in 
salt  and  water  till  the  shell  could  be  removed,  and  the 
way  of  cooking  which  would  make  the  most  of  this  deli- 
cacy when  finally  prepared  for  the  table. 

Loreto  is  little  more  than  a  long  street  of  booths 
for  the  sale  of  rosaries,  medals  and  images,  ending  in  a 
stately  piazza  where  stand  its  three  great  buildings,  the 
church  of  the  Holy  House,  with  its  bell  of  eleven  tons, 
the  Jesuit's  College,  and  the  Apostolic  Palace.  Their 
long  pillared  colonnades  frame  the  cold  stone-paved  quad- 
rangle, and  a  great  fountain  uprears  itself  in  the  centre. 
The  village  has  a  remarkable  history,  retreating  into  a 


APRIL   IN   THE    MARCHES  93 

retrospect  so  remote  as  to  create  the  liveliest  surprise 
that  even  its  least  details  are  authenticated ;  but  that  they 
are  so,  we  are  assured. 

Briefly  related  it  runs  something  as  follows:  The 
house  of  the  Virgin  Mary  at  Nazareth  having  become 
an  object  of  profound  veneration  to  all  Christians,  they 
made  it  the  goal  of  many  a  pilgrimage.  After  a  time 
the  Empress  Helena,  mother  of  Constantine,  had  a 
basilica  erected  over  it ;  but  later,  when  Palestine  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  Saracens,  a  miracle  became  necessary  to 
save  it  from  desecration.  Therefore  angels  lifted  it  bodily 
and  in  the  year  1291  carried  it  to  Dalmatia.  Three 
years  later,  however,  it  was  again  removed  by  the  same 
angelic  agency  and  borne  to  this  spot,  where  it  was 
deposited  in  the  garden  of  a  woman  named  Laureta. 
We  are  in  possession  of  a  little  book  containing  a  map 
and  an  exact  diagram  of  the  route  taken  by  the  angels 
in  both  the  first  and  second  transportation.  After  it 
was  located  in  Loreto  a  church  was  built  over  it, 
houses  sprang  up  about  it,  and  believers  flocked  hither 
from  all  quarters  till  it  has  become  the  great  Italian 
centre  of  pilgrimage. 

Within  the  lofty  church  and  almost  lost  in  its  vast- 
ness  is  the  little  rough  brick  structure,  the  Holy  House, 
but  entirely  covered  upon  the  outside  by  a  superb  carved 
marble  screen.  Through  two  doors  in  it  you  can  enter, 
and  within  the  small  space  kneel  the  devout,  adoring  the 
little  black  wooden  image  of  the  Virgin  in  its  magnificent 
shrine,  while  silver  and  gold  lamps  hang  from  the  ceiling, 
giving  light  and  showing  the  uneven  brick  walls  polished 
to  a  surface  almost  like  glass  by  the  kisses  of  penitents. 
A  low,  broad  marble  step  runs  round  the  outside  and 
in  this  are  two  deep  rounded  ruts,  worn  by  those  who 
make  their  penitential  progress  round  it  upon  their 
knees!  Untold  riches  have  been  lavished  upon  the 


94  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

interior  of  the  church,  and  work  is  still  going  on.  One 
immense  apartment  is  the  Treasury,  and  in  this  are  pre- 
served as  in  a  museum  the  offerings  of  all  kinds  show- 
ered upon  the  Virgin.  It  is  a  bewildering  glitter  of  gold 
and  precious  stones  used  in  every  possible  way — candle- 
sticks four  feet  high  covered  with  embedded  coral, 
golden  goblets,  a  crucifix  of  rock-crystal  set  with  emer- 
alds of  great  size,  silver  vases,  rich  robes,  banners,  and 
jewelry  of  all  sorts,  from  objects  of  almost  no  value,  such 
as  silver  watches,  up  to  the  costliest  that  can  be  found. 

At  one  end  of  the  room  is  a  large  glass  case  in  which 
the  letters  I.  N.  R.  I.  much  elaborated  and  embellished 
are  formed  entirely  of  rings  that  have  been  given.  There 
are  seven  hundred  in  this  one  case,  but  these  are  a  small 
part  of  what  may  be  seen  there,  scattered  everywhere  in 
ropes  and  garlands.  The  case  that  interested  us  most 
was  one  containing  the  jewels  of  a  certain  marchesa  of 
Genoa,  left  as  an  offering  in  her  will.  I  fear  there  were 
repinings  among  her  surviving  relatives,  for  the  lady  had 
an  unimpeachable  taste  in  jewels  and  had  made  a  rare 
collection  of  them,  necklace  after  necklace,  brooches, 
bracelets,  rings  and  ornaments  for  the  hair,  almost  all  of 
rubies  set  with  diamonds — a  blaze  of  glorious  red  fire. 
Looking  upon  them  one  was  moved  to  imagine  her 
personality.  Of  course  she  was  beautiful,  with  the  rich 
brunette  beauty  that  these  stones  would  have  so  set  off. 
She  had  not  always  been  devout,  for  only  a  long  atten- 
tion to  worldly  delights  could  have  assembled  these 
rubies  and  arranged  them  with  such  a  coquetry  of  variety. 
What  had  been  her  career,  what  her  experiences  and 
emotions  ?  Had  a  crisis  in  her  life  suddenly  wrenched 
her  soul  from  earthly  joy  to  plunge  it  into  dejection  ? 
Was  she  forced  to  seek  heavenly  consolation,  thus  snatch- 
ing these  trinkets  from  the  altar  of  vanity  to  offer  them 
at  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin's  seven  times  pierced  heart  ? 


APRIL   IN   THE    MARCHES  95 

We  wove  a  romance  about  her,  but  in  our  pagan  minds 
desired  that  the  jewels  might  be  released  to  figure  again 
in  that  world  of  glitter  and  luxury,  of  revelry  and  beauty, 
to  which  they  belonged. 

RECANATI. 

Now  shalt  thou  rest  forever,  rest  till  death, 
Tired  heart.     Thy  last  illusion  perisheth  — 
The  dream  thou  wast  eternal.     It  is  gone. 
Of  all  thy  fond  illusions  none  remain; 
The  hope,  the  very  wish  to  hope,  is  flown. 
Rest  there  forever.     Thou  hast  throbbed  thy  fill. 

—  LEOPARDI.      Trans,  by  J.  A.  Symonds. 

Wandering  through  this  idyllic  country  and  ignor- 
1  ing  the  railways,  we  are  happy  in  the  independence  of 
little  open  carriages,  which  can  always  be  found  to  suit 
one's  desire  when  the  impulse  comes  to  move  on.  So  this 
morning,  while  the  dew  still  lay  on  the  tangled  hedges 
festooned  with  honeysuckle,  and  the  wild  flowers,  whose 
bright  faces  show  themselves  wherever  an  inch  is  left 
them,  upon  the  borders  of  the  carefully  cultivated  fields, 
we  drove  away  from  Lore  to.  With  us  we  bore  a  pre- 
cious treasure — not  a  sacred  image  of  the  Virgin,  not  a 
blest  rosary,  but,  who  could  guess  ? — a  tiny  wire  support 
for  a  lamp-shade.  How  many  times  in  obscure  inns 
have  we  seated  ourselves  in  the  evening  beside  an  un- 
shaded lamp  which  made  letter-writing  almost  too  trying 
to  the  eyes,  and  how  many  times  have  we  not  determined 
to  invent  some  protection,  and  cast  about  for  an  idea. 
And  now  here  it  was,  complete  and  perfect,  weighing 
nothing,  susceptible  of  being  flattened  to  lay  in  the  bag, 
adjustable  to  any  lamp-chimney.  Oh  happy  chance  ! 
I  called  upon  our  cheerful  little  maid,  whose  name  by 
the  way  was  Pulizia  (cleanliness).  When  I  commented 


96  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

upon  this  extraordinary  appellation,  not  at  first  thinking 
I  could  have  heard  it  correctly,  she  smilingly  confirmed 
my  pronunciation,  and  when  I  remarked  that  it  was 
indeed  an  uncommon  and  admirable  name,  she  admitted 
it,  with  an  air  of  modest  complacency. 

" Pulizia,"  said  I,  "do  you  not  think  the  padrone 
would  permit  me  to  buy  this  delightful  object  ? "  Pulizia 
allowed  that  he  might,  as  he  could  get  another  in  the 
town.  So  I  carried  it  down  to  the  door  in  my  hand 
as  we  we-nt  to  take  our  carriage,  and  begged  him  to  put 
a  price  upon  it.  He  looked  a  little  surprised  but  in- 
dulgently consented  to  part  with  it  for  the  sum  of  four 
cents,  and  it  has  taken  its  place  among  our  most  valued 
effects. 

This  province  of  the  Marches  becomes  more  and 
more  beautiful  as  one  penetrates  further  into  it — a  quiet 
agricultural  country,  whose  pictorial  farmhouses  give  such 
pleasure  to  the  eye.  The  immemorial  vine  and  olive 
flourish,  the  silkworm  labors,  and  amid  all  the  green,  last 
year's  haystack  stands  yellow  and  brown  at  the  angle 
of  each  house,  looking  like  a  large  round  loaf  which  has 
been  irregularly  sliced  away  with  a  sharp  knife  till  some- 
times only  a  many-sided  column  is  left  supported  by  the 
pole  which  formed  the  centre  of  the  stack.  Near  by 
there  is  often  the  woodpile,  but  that  is  but  a  prosaic 
name  for  the  form  it  takes  here,  which  is  circular,  pointed 
at  the  top,  and  altogether  resembling  a  magnified  pine 
cone,  while  the  ends  of  the  sticks,  all  pointing  outward, 
represent  the  separate  scales. 

It  was  but  two  hours  alternately  ascending  and  de- 
scending to  Recanati,  our  next  stopping-place,  which  is 
loftily  situated,  as  the  guide-books  say,  following  the 
waving  line  of  the  comb  of  a  ridge  and  looking  over 
intervening  hilltops  to  the  blue  Adriatic.  It  was  an  im- 
portant fortified  place  in  the  Middle  Ages,  but  it  looks 


APRIL   IN   THE    MARCHES  97 

very  unwarlike  now,  and  lies  well  open  to  the  sunlight 
and  the  hill  breezes.  Our  interest  here  outside  of  the 
mere  pleasure  of  happy  exploration  was  divided  between 
Lorenzo  Lotto,  some  of  whose  finest  paintings  lie  hidden 
in  this  remote  hill  town,  and  Leopardi,  the  saddest  of 
poets,  and  but  for  the  glory  of  his  verse  the  unhappiest 
of  men,  or  so  it  seems  when  one  reads  of  his  embittered 
life,  his  many  trials,  his  early  death.  So  we  went  first 
to  the  Leopardi  palace,  which  stands  at  one  extremity 
of  the  serpentine  course  followed  by  the  irregular  city. 
We  found  it  in  perfect  preservation,  built  on  the  simplest 
lines  of  smooth  brick,  buff  inclining  to  pink  in  tone,  its 
long  fa9ade  upon  the  street  extended  by  the  still  longer 
high  wall  of  its  invisible  garden.  The  severity  of  the 
whole  was,  however,  relieved  by  one  thing ;  along  the 
fall  length  of  the  coping  at  the  top  of  the  wall  stood 
a  row  of  flower-pots  close  enough  to  touch  and  filled 
with  beautiful  blossoming  plants. 

Standing  in  the  warmth  of  the  cloudless  noon  we 
rang  at  the  portal  and  were  presently  admitted.  The 
whiteness,  the  silence,  the  purity  inside  I  can  hardly 
describe.  A  quiet  coolness  rested  there,  and  we  felt  the 
hush  of  it  as  we  followed  the  old  servant  who  conducted  us 
toward  the  library,  which  is  all  that  is  shown  to  strangers. 
It  was  not  a  house  of  gloom  and  vast  spaces;  one's 
imagination  could  picture  the  life  of  a  family  as  having 
gone  on  there,  but  somehow  mirth  and  laughter  seemed 
foreign  to  it,  a  subdued  existence,  dreamy  or  melancholy, 
was  all  the  fancy  could  connect  with  its  past.  On  the 
stairway  exquisite  bits  of  antique  carved  marble  were 
inserted  here  and  there  in  the  walls.  One  little  square 
there  was,  so  delicate  and  perfect  that  though  I  seldom 
covet  antiquities  I  could  not  help  longing  to  possess  it, 
a  St.  Jerome  with  a  sleeping  lion  that  might  have  been 
cut  for  a  cameo. 


98  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

From  the  head  of  the  stairs  we  passed  into  the 
library,  a  series  of  connecting  rooms  or  recesses  along 
the  line  of  windows  upon  the  front,  not  large  and  with 
ceilings  rather  low,  books  lining  the  walls  as  high  as  the 
hand  could  reach,  perfectly  preserved  and  mostly  bound 
in  vellum.  A  beautiful  order  and  spotlessness  character- 
ized everything  and  withal  there  was  no  air  of  an  uninhab- 
ited place ;  it  was  as  though  the  dweller  might  step  in  at 
any  moment.  The  books  were  classified  and  catalogued. 
I  took  some  of  them  from  the  shelves,  thinking  of  the 
marvelous  boy  who  once  held  them  in  his  hands,  and 
of  the  cruel  circumstances  of  his  life  in  this  house.  I 
pictured  the  father,  a  selfish,  oblivious  recluse  shut  in  his 
library,  the  mother,  a  stern  masculine  being,  absorbed  in 
parsimonious  saving  that  the  wrecked  fortunes  of  the 
family  might  be  re-established — both  utterly  neglectful 
of  the  wonderful  precocity  of  the  spirit  that  burned  in 
that  frail  body,  so  that  before  he  had  reached  manhood 
his  health  was  hopelessly  broken. 

The  old  servant,  seeing  that  we  lingered  over  the 
objects  in  these  rooms  and  were  sincerely  interested  in 
them,  pointed  out  a  window  within  sight  where  that  sweet- 
voiced  daughter  of  a  stable-keeper  who  so  charmed  poor 
Leopardi  loved  to  sit  and  sing  at  her  work  while  he  lis- 
tened at  a  distance.  Alas  !  that  the  love  he  so  passion- 
ately longed  for  never  came  to  warm  his  heart,  then  or 
afterwards.  He  lived  like  a  caged  bird  in  the  dullest 
of  Italian  towns,  refused  indulgence,  recreation,  change 
of  scene,  which  might  have  partially  restored  him ;  often 
for  months  together  cut  off  from  the  use  of  his  eyes 
and  the  resource  of  study.  What  wonder  that  unhappi- 
ness  breathed  through  all  his  beautiful  verse  and  that  his 
has  been  called  the  philosophy  of  despair. 

Besides  the  books  there  were  old  portraits,  richly 
carved  wood  in  high  relief,  majolica,  exquisite  little 


APRIL    IN    THE    MARCHES  99 

antiquities  chosen  with  rare  taste,  a  cunningly  wrought 
cloak  clasp,  a  tiny  lamp  in  the  shape  of  a  swan  especially 
attracted  us.  Much  of  Leopardi's  handwriting  was  pre- 
served here,  from  the  age  of  nine  years  up,  as  clear  as 
print  and  almost  as  regular.  A  yearning  pity  takes  posses- 
sion of  one  in  the  contemplation  of  these  memorials — 
a  longing  to  have  had  the  privilege  of  making  life  a  little 
more  endurable  to  this  suffering  soul  who  so  often  met 
with  the  chill  of  disillusion  or  the  harshness  of  rebuff. 
He  found  no  sympathy  in  Recanati  in  his  own  day,  but 
at  present  it  values  him  sufficiently  to  devote  a  small 
show-window  to  copies  of  his  poems,  as  we  noticed  in 
driving  past  it  a  little  later.  Opposite  is  his  statue,  in 
a  sombre  revery,  its  unseeing  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sunny 
emptiness  of  the  wide  piazza  in  which  it  stands. 

MACERATA. 

Between  Recanati  and  Macerata  a  great  gulf  lies, 
and  one  spends  the  hours  of  the  journey  from  one  to 
the  other  in  making  a  long  meandering  descent  and  then 
climbing  slowly  up  again,  till  the  city  appears,  set  upon 
the  highest  ground  in  sight,  and  just  covering  the  plat- 
form leveled  for  it  upon  its  mountain-top.  A  girdling 
terrace  encircles  its  walls  upon  the  outside,  shaded  by 
trees  and  commanding  a  marvelous  view  of  miles  of  sur- 
rounding beauty.  Our  patient  horses  having  rounded 
the  last  curve  and  brought  us  up  to  the  gateway,  we 
entered  and  clattered  along  the  stony  streets,  between 
its  high  impassive  buildings.  However  slowly  an  Italian 
driver  may  have  been  conducting  you  through  the  open 
country,  he  never  fails  to  lash  himself  and  his  horses 
into  a  becoming  frenzy  of  excitement  for  the  passage 
through  a  town,  and  with  bells  jingling  and  whip  crack- 
ing like  a  volley  of  musketry,  he  tears  through  the 


ioo  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

streets,  scattering  the  foot-passengers  to  right  and  left, 
almost  grazing  the  bare  legs  of  the  children,  and  calling 
to  the  windows  all  the  inhabitants  within  doors.  Thus 
we  proceeded,  and  finally  drew  up  at  the  dingy  low-arched 
door  of  the  Hotel  Milano,  where  we  were  met  by  a 
stout  landlady  and  her  myrmidons,  and  conveyed  up- 
wards, a  direction  in  which  things  under  such  circum- 
stances as  these  almost  always  improve ;  for  whereas  one 
may  be  filled  with  misgivings  upon  the  level  of  the  street, 
the  second  story  is  apt  to  offer  reassurance  and  the  third 
or  fourth  may  break  into  absolute  good  cheer. 

Our  rooms,  however,  proved  to  be  entirely  bereft 
of  the  beautiful  outlook  we  longed  to  feast  upon  during 
our  brief  stay,  and  we  expressed  discontent  thereat — 
was  there  no  room  with  a  view  ?  The  landlady  was  most 
disturbed,  but  she  feared  not ;  she  adjured  her  attendant 
maids  and  porters,  could  these  respected  ladies  be  accom- 
modated with  a  view  ?  The  house  was  patronized  by  the 
aristocracy,  it  was  ever  full.  What  was  to  be  done? 
Did  any  one  know,  for  instance,  had  the  Marquis  of 
Aldobrando  any  intention  of  leaving  on  the  morrow? 
A  variety  of  opinions  was  offered.  But  at  least,  was 
the  Marquis  abroad  at  that  moment?  Could  not  the 
ladies  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  apartment  and 
the  view  it  commanded  ?  There  was  clattering  over  the 
halls  and  stairs,  and  presently  from  the  attendants  dis- 
posed within  easy  shouting  distance  of  one  another  came 
the  assurance  that  the  noble  Marquis  was  without,  in 
the  town.  We  glanced  at  the  stern  simplicity  of  our 
quarters  and  filled  with  visions  of  titled  luxury  above, 
ascended  with  alacrity. 

But  alas  for  romance  !  we  had  perhaps  gone  a  little 
too  high.  The  Marquis*  apartment  looked  strangely 
like  an  attic  chamber,  and  a  small  one.  Its  brick  floor, 
its  narrow  iron  bed,  its  bare  wooden  dressing-table  were 


APRIL   IN    THE    MARCHES  101 

unadorned,  and  the  Marquis*  property,  which  was  repre- 
sented by  a  pair  of  boots  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear, 
under  the  table,  and  a  litter  of  papers  upon  it,  left  little 
to  the  imagination.  The  view,  too,  proved  to  be  a  lim- 
ited oblique  glimpse  from  the  one  small  gable  window,  and 
so,  heaving  a  sigh  of  disillusionment,  we  descended  to  our 
first  choice.  It  was  roomy,  it  was  high,  its  tile  floor  had 
not  so  very  long  ago  been  sprinkled  and  swept;  the 
coarse  linen  sheets  upon  the  bed  were  white  and  clean, 
and  besides  this  it  proved  to  open  into  a  large  salon,  with 
tall  presses  against  the  walls,  a  heavy  sofa,  some  family 
portraits  of  stern,  fixed  expression  and  a  round  table  in 
the  centre.  This  looked  encouraging,  and  we  asked  if 
our  meals  could  be  served  here.  It  was  consented  to, 
for  no  amount  of  running  up  and  down  stairs  to  and 
from  a  distant  kitchen  discourages  people  who  have 
never  seen  dumb-waiters  or  elevators,  and  so  we  settled 
ourselves  quite  contentedly  and  proceeded  to  remove  the 
dust  of  travel.  And  when,  a  little  later,  we  leaned  upon 
our  broad  window-sill  in  the  soft  twilight  and  beheld  the 
old  palazzo  opposite,  with  its  heavy  sculptured  coats  of 
a>ms  over  every  window,  and  presently  watched  the  pretty 
Italian  maid  appearing  successively  at  them  to  close  the 
shutters  and  light  the  rooms,  we  fell  a-dreaming  of  the 
lingering  scion  of  an  ancient  aristocracy  that  must  inhabit 
this  stately  antiquity,  and  were  happy.  Soon  after,  when 
we  were  recalled  to  things  material  by  the  damsel  who 
announced  that  dinner  was  served,  we  sat  in  much  con- 
tent on  opposite  sides  of  the  round  table,  which  bore 
savory  dishes  of  roasted  kid  and  artichokes,  and  whose 
tablecloth  was  made  a  focus  of  light  by  our  twinkling 
candles,  which  evoked  obscure  glimmerings  as  their  rays 
touched  some  piece  of  old  mahogany  or  faintly  illumined 
the  observant  eyes  of  the  portraits  presiding  over  our 
meal. 


loz  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

Macerata  being  but  a  few  hundred  years  old,  is 
called  modern  by  a  population  accustomed  to  cities  whose 
foundations  were  laid  in  the  age  of  myth  and  legend, 
and  it  offers  to  the  visitor  rather  less  than  usual  of  asso- 
ciation and  memorial.  In  the  morning  we  searched  out 
its  library,  upon  the  upper  floor  of  the  building  that 
harbored  it,  and  found  that  it  was  closed  in  the  middle 
hours  of  the  day ;  and  when  we  returned  later,  we  had 
still  to  wait  a  little  outside  its  door,  in  company  with 
one  of  its  choleric  citizens,  whose  impatience  to  be  admit- 
ted and  whose  disapprobation  of  exclusion  at  any  period 
of  the  day  roused  him  to  an  apostrophe  which  might 
have  been  heard  on  the  street  below. 

The  object  of  our  interest  within  was  the  small  pic- 
ture gallery,  which  occupied  a  room  opening  from  those 
containing  the  books.  And  here,  as  at  Ancona,  it  was 
the  Crivelli  Madonna  that  we  sought.  She  was  there 
and  stood  looking  out  at  us  with  a  serious  reflective  air, 
as  she  absently  bent  her  head  a  little  to  one  side  to  meet 
the  caress  of  the  bambino  whom  she  balanced  upon  her 
hands  held  flatly,  as  though  bearing  a  salver.  Her  hair 
was  covered  with  a  simple  bit  of  closely  drawn  drapery 
but  in  her  mantle  the  magnificence  that  Crivelli  loved 
was  given  free  play,  for  it  was  covered  with  a  wealth  of 
embroidery  in  fanciful  conventionalized  design  —  spiked 
stars,  grape-leaves  and  fruits.  The  librarian  who  had 
conducted  us  to  it  returned  several  times  and  hovered 
about  us,  whether  with  the  intention  of  especial  courtesy 
or  of  inability  to  understand  our  spending  so  much  time 
before  one  picture  without  entertaining  dishonest  long- 
ings with  regard  to  it,  we  could  not  tell,  so  unfathom- 
able was  the  expression  of  his  curious  face.  At  all  events 
he  ended  by  making  us  a  little  uncomfortable  and  he 
accompanied  us  to  the  door  upon  our  departure  with  an 
air  in  which  we  fancied  irony  and  relief  to  be  blended. 


APRIL   IN   THE    MARCHES  103 

Outside  we  explored  the  streets  and  everywhere 
found  the  appearance  of  the  city  so  thrifty  and  respect- 
able that  we  could  not  help  longing  to  be  met  more 
frequently  by  a  shade  of  neglect,  a  little  of  the  rust  of 
age.  No  doubt  it  is  a  matter  for  just  complacency  to  the 
inhabitants  of  Macerata  that  their  municipality  contains 
not  only  a  university  but  an  agricultural  college  and  that 
their  buildings  are  in  a  state  of  such  scrupulous  repair, 
though  to  the  ungrateful  traveler  these  are  matters  of 
secondary  importance  and  we  were  almost  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  the  existence  there  of  our  old  palazzo  with 
the  sculptured  coats  of  arms. 

But  even  if  there  were  nothing  very  interesting  inside 
its  walls,  it  would  be  worth  while  to  go  there  for  the 
view  from  its  ring  terrace.  One  may  stroll  round  it  more 
'than  once  and  not  have  taken  a  long  ramble  and  the 
prospect  in  every  direction  is  so  varied  and  beautiful  that 
it  would  take  long  to  learn  even  one  of  its  aspects  by 
heart.  Many  a  high-lying  adamantine  old  town  adheres 
to  the  neighboring  heights  like  an  accretion  of  time,  and 
many  a  narrow  ravine  or  open  valley  lies  between,  while 
beyond,  such  a  panorama  of  snowy  peaks  unrolls  before 
one  as  can  hardly  be  matched  elsewhere.  The  tumul- 
tuous sweep  of  this  heaving  upland  which,  overlooked 
from  the  height  of  Macerata,  almost  seems  to  rock  under 
one's  feet,  appeared,  beneath  the  heavy  clouds  of  a  stormy 
sunset  through  which  lightnings  played  now  and  again, 
hardly  less  the  solitary  abode  of  nature  for  the  watchful 
eyries  of  its  isolated  villages;  and  as  one  lingers  while 
darkness  comes  on,  and  its  salient  points  define  them- 
selves more  sharply  against  the  sky,  while  its  depths  veil 
themselves  in  purple  obscurity,  a  feeling  of  creeping 
estrangement  settles  down  upon  one,  before  the  loneliness 
and  silence  that  seem  to  wrap  the  whole  earth  in  that 
hour. 


104  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

ASCOLI. 

"  Giu  nell '  opima  valle,  dal  Tronto  agil  bagnata, 

Ricca  d'  olive  e  vino  e  pur  di  querce  ombrata, 

Tu  siedi,  citta  bella  ;  di  tue  moli  orgogliosa, 

Nuova  letizia  infondi,  dovunque  1*  occhio  posa. 

Tu  vedi  arditi  e  saldi  vecchi  ponti  romani 

Opporsi  da  mille  anni  dell*  onda  agli  urti  immani." 

The  approach  to  Ascoli  is  by  the  long,  straight, 
gently  ascending  valley  of  the  river  Tronto  which  the 
traveler  follows  for  twenty-one  miles  from  the  shore 
of  the  Adriatic.  It  lies  in  the  fork  of  two  lesser 
streams  which  here  converge  to  form  the  greater  and 
beyond  it  glitter  the  loftiest  snow-walls  of  the  Apen- 
nines. Hills  rise  on  either  hand,  terrace  above  terrace, 
with  here  and  there  an  alluring  villa  that  makes  one 
long  for  access  to  it.  The  town  itself  one  could  never 
weary  of;  its  serious  gray  stone  streets,  the  remains 
of  the  grim  towers  with  which  the  place  once  bristled, 
standing  up  sternly  forbidding  here  and  there,  the 
ancient  walls,  the  arched  gateways,  but  especially  the 
colossal  bridges  and  aqueducts  that  span  both  the 
rivers — all  are  enchanting.  It  is  a  matter  for  surprise 
that  these  aqueducts  are  not  more  generally  celebrated, 
for  they  are  fine  examples,  of  great  size,  and  in  perfect 
preservation. 

Everywhere  there  is  beautiful  architecture,  almost 
undisturbed  by  modern  alteration  or  addition,  the 
houses  so  built,  centuries  ago,  sufficing  for  the  needs  of 
the  townsfolk  of  to-day.  Crossing  the  place  from  side  to 
side  one  is  charmed  by  the  river  banks,  where  gardens 
are  terraced  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water  and  show  the 
presence  of  underground  passages  as  a  means  of  descend- 
ing the  steep  pitch  of  many  feet.  Even  the  prison,  once 
a  castle,  would  serve  the  most  fastidious  story-teller  as 
the  scene  of  romance,  and  the  little  bridge  which  leads 


APRIL   IN    THE    MARCHES  105 

from  it,  spanning  the  narrow  gorge  of  the  river  here, 
and  which  one  may  only  look  at  but  not  approach,  is  a 
picture  in  itself. 

From  the  amount  of  staring  we  evoke  as  we  pursue 
our  explorations  it  is  to  be  inferred  that  few  tourists  find 
their  way  here,  but  we  like  the  people,  who  do  not  hang 
about  to  get  money  out  of  strangers,  but  bear  them- 
selves with  independent  self-respect.  They  are  a  vig- 
orous, interesting  race,  with  vivid  characteristics,  and  it 
is  their  boast  that  they  furnish  the  strongest,  the  best 
disciplined  and  the  most  gallant  soldiers  in  Italy  to  the 
national  army  to-day.  The  sturdy  women  carry  copper 
buckets  of  unusual  size  and  antique  form  to  the  public 
fountains  and  hourly  remind  one  of  the  delightful  col- 
lection of  brass  and  copper  vessels  for  water,  both  hot 
'and  cold,  which  might  be  made  in  Italy,  all  graceful  and 
all  differing  in  shape  in  the  various  provinces.  The 
weight  of  these  Ascoli  buckets  must  be  great  when  filled 
with  water,  but  a  handsome  peasant  woman  this  morning 
readily  consented  to  be  model  for  the  camera  and  swung 
hers,  brimming  with  water,  to  her  head  with  perfect 
ease.  She  waited  some  moments  with  it  poised  there, 
unsupported  by  her  hand,  but  when  we  afterwards 
offered  to  pay  her  would  take  nothing. 

All  our  questions  are  cordially  and  pleasantly 
answered  and  we  are  neither  followed  by  inquisitive 
children  nor  besieged  by  hungry  guides,  so  that  with  the 
manners  of  the  native  population  we  have  no  fault  to 
find;  but  there  is  a  class  of  their  visiting  countrymen 
who  do  cause  us  acute  discomfort.  We  should  be 
very  much  at  our  ease  in  our  little  hotel,  where  we  have 
two  well-lighted  bedrooms  at  forty  cents  apiece  the  day. 
Meals,  of  course,  are  extra  and  are  cheap  and  well 
cooked,  but  in  the  dining-room,  where  we  have  a  small 
table  to  ourselves,  in  a  position  as  retired  as  possible,  we 


io6  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

sit  somewhat  uneasily,  for  the  centre  of  the  room  is 
occupied  by  the  class  above  alluded  to,  whose  table  man- 
ners it  is  a  pain  to  contemplate.  I  refer  to  the  Italian 
commercial  traveler,  who  frequents  even  retired  Ascoli. 
Around  a  large  table  congregate  this  week  about  ten  of 
these  cheerful  and  loudly  conversing  persons.  All  of 
them  are  good  looking  and  well  dressed,  one  or  two 
strikingly  handsome,  yet  their  behavior  at  table  tran- 
scends in  awful  ness  even  that  of  those  magnificent 
German  officers  we  have  all  seen,  who  lightly  alternate 
the  courses  of  the  table  d'hote  with  the  use  of  a  pocket- 
comb.  That  they  are  quite  unconscious  of  their  short- 
comings, however,  and  are  not  without  a  code  of 
manners,  is  proved  by  the  way  in  which  they  never  fail 
to  salute  the  table  of  the  signore  with  a  respectful  and 
even  courtly  inclination  as  they  pass  out  of  the  dining- 
room.  We  gravely  return  the  salutation  and  do  not 
tarry  in  the  dining-room  longer  than  is  needful,  endeavor- 
ing while  we  remain  to  fix  our  attention  upon  any 
curious  and  unwonted  viands  supplied  to  us. 

The  dessert  which  appears  oftenest  at  this  season  is 
a  tastefully  arranged  giardinetto  or  fruit  dish  containing 
three  things  —  oranges,  fennel-root  and  beans.  Though 
with  the  best  intention  in  the  world  of  doing  in  Rome  as 
the  Romans  do,  we  have  given  up  trying  to  enjoy  the  two 
latter.  The  great  white  roots  of  the  fennel,  larger  than 
the  oldest  onion  and  almost  as  high  flavored,  find  great 
favor  here  and  also  the  beans,  of  a  strong,  coarse 
variety  in  thick,  succulent  pods,  five  or  six  inches  long. 
Breaking  open  the  pod  the  beans  are  to  be  taken  out 
and  dipped  in  salt.  We  never  refuse  to  taste  any  new 
dish  and  indeed  enjoy  fresh  sensations  of  the  kind, 
but  to  acquire  a  permanent  liking  for  it  is  sometimes 
beyond  us.  For  instance,  chicory  salad  is  a  delicacy  the 
bitterness  of  which  custom  cannot  sweeten,  and  basil, 


APRIL   IN   THE    MARCHES  107 

used  raw  as  a  relish,  one  can  hardly  be  reconciled  to, 
though  memories  of  Isabella  mourning  over  her  pathetic 
flower-pot  make  one  long  to  feel  a  fondness  for  it.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  Italians  have  discovered  uses  for 
things  which  we  wastefully  throw  away  and  which  are 
really  good.  The  stalks  of  artichokes  are  tied  up  like 
asparagus  and  sold  in  the  Florentine  markets,  and  make 
an  acceptable  dish  prepared  in  several  different  ways. 
There  are  certain  other  vegetables  and  some  nuts  and 
fruits  unfamiliar  to  us  about  which  there  may  be  more 
than  one  opinion,  but  surely  all  the  world  would  agree 
in  celebrating  that  triumph  of  Italian  cookery,  frit  to 
misto. 

There  are  many  possibilities  in  fritto  misto ;  indeed, 
guessing  would  be  difficult  the  first  time  one  sits  down 
to  it.  A  platter  is  placed  before  one,  heaped  up  with 
golden-brown  fried  morsels  of  various  shapes.  Do  not 
imagine  a  heavy,  oily  mass.  By  no  means ;  all  is  most 
delicate  and  free  from  fat  or  grease.  Many  kinds  of 
vegetables,  as  well  as  liver,  sweetbreads  and  other  things 
of  the  sort  may  be  used,  but  our  favorite  combination  is 
artichokes,  calves'  brains,  melon-flowers  and  squash. 
The  latter  is  a  squash  I  have  never  seen  elsewhere  ;  very 
small,  bright  green  without  and  yellow  within,  it  is  cut 
into  long,  thin  ribbons  about  the  size  of  macaroni. 
When  well  cooked,  and  it  is  very  rare  to  find  it  ill- 
prepared,  this  is  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods,  and  wherever  we 
are  we  order  it  for  one  course. 

We  enjoy  here  the  ministrations  of  a  young  waiter 
who  is  pursuing  the  study  of  English,  and  who  is  charmed 
with  the  proficiency  he  has  attained.  In  Ascoli  he  natu- 
rally has  few  opportunities  to  exercise  this  accomplish- 
ment, and  so  never  loses  an  occasion  to  practice  it  with 
us.  The  other  day  he  bore  in  a  smoking  platter  of  fritto 
misto,  and  setting  it  down  before  us  with  a  fine  flourish, 


io8  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

announced  "Mingle-ed  fried  stew!"  Polenta  also  is 
delicious  as  it  is  made  here  ( I  have  tried  in  vain  to  imi- 
tate it  at  home  ),  corn-meal  boiled  to  a  certain  consistency, 
and  sometimes  served  with  a  covering  of  grated  cheese 
browned  in  the  oven.  Occasionally  unexpected  surprises 
meet  us.  For  instance,  once  it  was  inquired  whether  we 
should  like  peas  for  dinner.  We  at  once  admitted  that 
we  should  and  wondered  somewhat  that  they  did  not 
appear  in  the  natural  order  of  the  meal.  What  was  our 
amusement,  however,  to  have  them  presented  raw  and  in 
their  pods  as  a  dessert. 

But  to  return  from  the  discussion  of  the  food  offered 
in  Ascoli  to  its  natural  beauty  and  human  interest.  Vir- 
tually ignorant  of  all  but  the  name  of  the  place  before  we 
reached  it,  we  have  learned  to  love  it  and  to  study  with 
the  deepest  interest  its  present  condition  and  what  we  can 
discover  of  its  local  inheritance  of  custom,  rite  and  legend 
that  descends  from  an  antiquity  hardly  penetrated  as  yet 
by  antiquarian  research.  The  remnants  of  a  religion  so 
old  that  the  inhabitants  themselves  hardly  recognize  it 
for  what  it  is,  yet  cling  to  the  villages  in  the  surrounding 
mountains.  The  worship  of  Mars,  for  example,  is  still 
represented  at  Monte  Rubbiano,  where,  on  a  certain  day, 
the  contadini  raise  upon  a  branch  the  woodpecker,  sacred 
to  the  god  of  war,  and  doing  honor  to  it  with  loud  acclaim, 
carry  it  through  the  village  in  procession ;  and  it  is  touch- 
ing to  learn  that  the  mother  still  lays  in  the  coffin  of  her 
dead  child  the  toys  that  he  has  played  with  in  life,  and 
presses  into  the  little  cold  palm  a  silver  coin  for  the  ferry 
of  Charon.  There  are  strange  beliefs  in  witches  and 
enchanters  and  lively  imaginations  people  the  mountains 
and  forests  with  a  thousand  legendary  beings,  and  in  the 
long  winter  evenings  at  the  fireside  both  men  and  women 
recount  in  almost  Homeric  strain  tales  of  kings  and 
queens,  of  knights  and  dames,  of  arms  and  love;  and 


APRIL   IN   THE    MARCHES  109 

veritable  epics  exist,  handed  down  from  father  to  son  by 
word  of  mouth. 

Their  Lake  Pilato,  buried  in  a  valley  so  high  and 
shadowed  that  the  snow  never  quite  leaves  it  even  in 
summer,  is  the  centre  of  much  folk-lore,  the  abode  of  the 
fox,  the  wolf  and  the  dolphin,  favorite  characters  and 
subjects  of  a  whole  cycle  of  legends.  Christian  forms  are 
often  curiously  interwoven  with  pagan  survivals,  as,  for 
example,  the  worship  of  San  Domenico,  which  is  here 
connected  with  serpents.  A  visit  to  his  sanctuary  will 
cure  the  bites  of  vipers  and  on  the  day  of  his  festa  his 
statue,  the  interior  of  which  is  perforated  with  holes,  is 
surrounded  with  living  snakes,  which  are  encouraged  to 
crawl  through  and  about  it. 

The  feast  of  Saint  Emidio,  the  patron  of  Ascoli, 
comes  in  the  heat  of  August,  a  propitious  time,  as  they 
think,  between  the  grain  harvest  and  the  anticipation  of 
a  fruitful  vintage,  and  any  one  who  is  prepared  to  sacrifice 
two  or  three  nights'  sleep  may  enjoy  the  animated  occa- 
sion. Fifteen  days  previously  the  day  is  announced  by 
the  sound  of  the  church  bells  and  this  is  responded  to  by 
all  the  children  in  the  town,  who  having  secured  before- 
hand toy  terra-cotta  bells  prepared  for  this  use,  ring  them 
madly  from  the  windows  of  all  the  houses,  and  youthful 
peddlers  of  little  lanterns  for  the  illumination  of  the 
nouses  at  night  issue  forth  with  their  wares,  some  of 
which  are  roughly  painted  with  portraits  of  the  saint, 
amusingly  but  unintentionally  grotesque. 

The  slow  progress  of  ox-carts  toward  Ascoli  from 
various  directions  is  a  picturesque  part  of  the  proceedings. 
The  carts  in  this  vicinity  are  decorated  with  careful  elabo- 
ration. Bright  blue  is  a  favorite  groundwork  color,  and 
upon  this  often  appear  garlands  of  roses  and  portraits  of 
distinguished  ladies  in  low-cut  gowns.  Striking  enough 
on  ordinary  occasions,  at  this  time  they  are  fairly  dazzling, 


no  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

draped  and  festooned  as  they  are  with  red,  for  from  all 
the  neighborhood  the  contadini  flock  in  to  take  part  in 
the  festivities,  the  lads  with  jaunty  jacket  attached  to  one 
shoulder  and  a  peacock's  feather  in  the  cap,  and  the  girls 
wearing  their  fullest  and  smartest  balloon-like  petticoats. 
All  circulate  through  the  streets,  from  which  rise  a  chorus 
of  shouts,  cries,  salutations,  that  fills  the  air  until  evening, 
when  they  assemble  in  the  main  squares  to  listen  to  the 
serenades,  as  they  are  called.  One  or  two  musicians  saw 
more  vigorously  than  melodiously  upon  violins  perhaps 
fashioned  from  the  wood  of  their  own  forests.  Another 
torments  a  species  of  violoncello,  sometimes  painted  green 
and  often  minus  a  string,  which  is  apt  to  have  a  curious 
and  rudely  contrived  bridge  of  fish  bone.  The  singer, 
with  an  elbow  gracefully  bent  upon  the  shoulder  of  one 
of  the  violinists,  begins  his  song  and  warbles  endlessly  on 
till  his  brow  is  moist  and  his  throat  dry  and  parched. 

A  contadina  loves  to  boast  of  the  number  of  seren- 
ades her  lover  has  paid  for  in  her  honor  and  a  part  of  the 
affair  is  that  she  shall  stand  arm  in  arm  with  him  before 
the  musicians  while  one  of  them  brushes  her  face  lightly 
with  a  twig  of  basil.  She  meanwhile  gazes  upon  the 
ground  and  must  on  no  account  allow  herself  to  laugh  or 
even  smile,  while  her  lover,  assuming  a  haughty  and  fixed 
expression,  smokes  his  cigar  vigorously  and  looks  sternly 
before  him.  The  basil  is  a  great  feature  of  the  occasion 
and  everywhere  its  odor  floats  on  the  air.  Each  lad 
must  wear  a  sprig  over  one  ear  and  the  girl  one  upon  her 
breast  or  tucked  into  her  girdle,  and  great  is  the  sale 
thereof  upon  the  steps  of  the  Duomo.  Other  sports 
take  place  on  this  occasion,  for  there  are  lottery  draw- 
ings and  races,  and  by  day  the  wildest  and  most  riotous 
noise  goes  on  in  the  open  air,  while  in  contrast  a  hushed 
and  solemn  throng  fills  the  cathedral,  and  those  who 
have  what  they  think  to  be  diseases  of  the  bones  struggle 


APRIL   IN   THE    MARCHES  in 

silently  to  reach  the  sacred  urn,  lowered  to  the  floor 
on  this  occasion,  containing  the  remains  of  the  saint. 
Through  the  pushing,  jostling  crowd  they  slowly  make 
their  way  toward  it,  for  they  know  that  even  grazing  the 
shoulder  against  it  on  this  propitious  day  ensures  a  cure. 
So  the  day  proceeds,  and  for  yet  another  night  the 
tireless  holiday-makers  emulate  one  another  in  keeping 
up  the  tumult,  till  at  last  exhausted  but  happy  they 
mount  their  carts  and  straggle  away  into  the  country,  to 
recount  the  pleasure  past  and  wait  for  the  joyous  return 
of  the  fete  of  Saint  Emidio. 

SAN   BENEDETTO   DEL  TRONTO. 

The  twenty  miles  of  gradual  descent  from  Ascoli  to 
•the  sea  are  pleasantly  taken  by  carriage  and  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  secure  a  pair  of  stout  horses  and  a  comfortable 
vehicle  for  the  trip.  There  are  few  windings  and  turn- 
ings to  the  highway  which  one  follows,  and  from  either 
side  of  the  long  lateral  valley  grassy  hills  rise  abruptly, 
those  on  the  south  being  much  higher.  The  eye  of  a 
traveler  fond  of  walking,  at  once  takes  in  tempting  possi- 
bilities on  that  side,  for  it  looks  as  though  one  might 
follow  the  backbone  of  the  range  for  miles,  enjoying 
incomparable  views  over  the  country,  and  pausing  at 
intervals  at  the  fascinating  towns,  which,  as  a  local  guide- 
book which  we  unearthed  with  much  pains  at  Ascoli 
remarks,  "sit  astride  of  the  eminences."  A  smiling 
country  it  is,  full  of  fruit-trees,  grain  and  vegetables,  and 
as  we  passed  along  we  noticed  a  row  of  peasants  among 
the  wheat,  the  bright  headgear  of  the  women,  red,  yellow 
and  white,  making  bits  of  delightful  contrast  with  the 
fresh  green.  We  asked  our  driver  what  they  were  doing 
and  he  explained  that  they  were  weeding.  We  thought 
of  the  Montana  wheatfields  we  had  seen,  miles  in  extent, 


H2  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

and  of  the  owners*  surprise  at  having  them  weeded  like  a 
garden-bed.  But  so  it  was,  and  one  may  assert  that  the 
land  was  producing  three  or  four  crops  at  once. 

Next  the  road  were  two  lines  of  mulberry-trees, 
these  for  the  silkworms,  then  in  rows  all  over  the  fields 
were  trees  upon  which  grape-vines  were  trained,  and 
beneath  these  again,  the  grain.  The  trees  to  act  as  trellises 
for  the  vines  are  put  in  as  saplings,  and  made  to  grow  with 
a  bare  trunk  for  about  five  feet.  Then  they  are  allowed 
to  branch  out,  the  branches  being  forced  to  take  the  form 
of  a  cup  and  strictly  pruned.  At  the  end  of  each  of  the 
principal  ones  a  few  shoots  are  permitted  to  come  out  in 
the  spring.  The  grape  vines,  planted  a  few  inches  from 
the  trunk,  are  supported  upon  these  and  the  fruit  is  easily 
gathered  from  below.  This  sounds  like  a  crowded  field, 
and  yet  they  plough  it  with  a  yoke  of  their  big  oxen  to 
the  very  trunks  of  the  trees. 

Now  and  then  we  passed  a  characteristic  villa.  It 
stood  at  some  distance  and  well  elevated  upon  a  hill. 
From  it  to  the  road  ran  a  long,  straight,  unswerving  drive- 
way, terminating  at  the  highway  in  a  fine  stone  gateway. 
And  here  let  me  say  that  this  gateway  forms  one  of  the 
marked  characteristics  of  a  villa  as  opposed  to  a  farm- 
house. 

A  villa  may  be  comparatively  unimportant  in  size 
and  a  farmhouse  quite  imposing,  but  the  latter  never 
seems  to  usurp  the  privilege  of  the  stately  entrance. 
These  are  of  the  form  familiar  to  us  in  pictures,  a  pair  of 
high  stone  pillars,  square  and  solid,  and  a  second  pair  of 
lower  ones,  the  spaces  between  being  left  open,  or  the 
masonry  curving  down  from  the  two  taller  to  the  two 
shorter.  Neither  is  it  deemed  necessary  to  continue 
the  magnificence  of  this  beginning;  two  or  three  fine 
cypresses  break  the  sudden  termination  and  the  enclo- 
sure continues  with  a  humble  hedge,  or  the  gateway 


APRIL    IN    THE    MARCHES  113 

stands  as  a  sort  of  monumental  landmark,  with  no  further 
division  between  the  road  and  the  field.  The  villa  Piccin- 
nini,  which  we  stopped  to  have  a  better  view  of,  is  a  youth- 
ful edifice,  dating  but  half  a  century  back.  It  has  a 
gateway  with  modern  ornamentation,  and  the  following 
hospitable  inscription  carved  upon  its  posts  underneath 
the  proprietor's  name :  Otia  ex  studio  sibi  suis  et  amicis. 

Between  Ascoli  and  Solmona,  our  next  objective 
point,  we  were  planning  with  some  timidity  to  spend  a 
night  at  San  Benedetto  del  Tronto,  a  village  on  the  sea- 
shore, through  which  the  railway  passed.  Baedeker  was 
ominously  silent  in  regard  to  it,  dismissing  it  with  a  men- 
tion of  less  than  a  line,  but  we  had  decided  to  venture  it 
and  looked  a  little  anxiously  at  the  inn  as  we  approached. 
The  street  was  clean  and  the  front  of  the  building 
looked  quiet  and  unobjectionable.  So  did  the  interior  as 
we  entered,  and  at  the  top  of  the  three  flights  of  stairs  up 
which  the  landlady  conducted  us  we  were  shown  into  a 
pretty  little  suite  of  rooms  faultlessly  neat,  comfortably 
furnished,  and  looking  from  windows  of  generous  size 
out  over  the  intervening  streets  to  the  sea.  We  glanced 
at  each  other  with  the  self-satisfaction  of  successful  pio- 
neers, and  admired  the  shell  ornaments  on  the  etagere  of 
the  salon  and  the  Parian  statuette  of  two  lovers  inter- 
twined in  an  ardent  embrace.  The  question  of  dinner 
was  brought  forward,  the  hour  and  the  viands  that  the 
signore  would  prefer  inquired,  and  having  discharged 
that  responsibility  we  hurried  to  the  seashore,  for  we 
could  see  that  the  fishing-boats  were  coming  in,  with 
their  beautiful  golden  and  terra-cotta  sails  full  spread. 
If  only  we  could  have  arrived  an  hour  sooner ! 

These  were  but  the  stragglers,  for  already  scores  of 
the  little  craft  were  drawn  up  on  the  beach  and  a  noisy 
and  busy  scene  was  being  enacted.  As  fast  as  the  boats 
were  beached  two  toy  anchors  were  thrown  out,  one 


114  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

astern  and  one  on  the  sandy  shore,  then  the  nets  were 
hung  up  to  dry  upon  the  mast  and  soon  the  long  per- 
spective of  boats  appeared  to  be  furnished  with  sails 
of  fishing  net,  while  the  shouting,  hurrying  fishermen 
brought  the  day's  catch  out  upon  the  sand,  whence  it  was 
carried  in  baskets  to  a  large  paved  court  close  by,  where 
it  was  sorted  and  packed  at  once  to  be  sent  away.  We 
strayed  along  the  shore,  looking  curiously  into  the  differ- 
ent baskets  and  noting  the  variety  of  kinds.  Of  course 
the  cuttlefish  interested  us  most,  strange,  forbidding  little 
objects,  which  are  yet  such  a  dainty  when  prepared  for 
the  table.  Only  in  shape  are  they  forbidding,  however; 
in  color  they  are  various  and  charming,  soft  gray,  pale 
blue,  or  iridescent  with  changing  opaline  hues. 

Stooping  over  a  basket  beside  which  stood  a  tall, 
slim  girl  with  her  head  and  shoulders  enveloped  in  a 
black  shawl,  I  made  some  idle  remark  about  its  contents. 
She  remained  gazing  out  to  sea,  and  returned  so  slight  an 
answer  that  I  looked  up.  It  is  rare  that  the  least  con- 
versational advance  is  not  met  with  instant  cordiality  and 
I  wondered  a  little  at  her  manner.  I  ventured  another 
question  and  this  time  she  turned,  bringing  the  great 
dark  eyes  that  had  been  fixed  upon  the  horizon  slowly 
back  and  letting  them  rest  upon  the  stranger,  abstract- 
edly at  first,  with  the  half-bewildered  look  of  one  whose 
attention  is  unwillingly  withdrawn  from  an  absorbing 
thought.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  then  a  change 
came  over  her  face,  her  eyes  seemed  to  search  for  sym- 
pathy, her  lips  trembled,  she  half  whispered  a  broken 
sentence,  and  then  with  a  deep  in-drawn  breath,  a  torrent 
of  speech  burst  from  her.  She  wrung  her  hands  and  tears 
streamed  down  her  cheeks  as  she  told  a  story  so  pitiful, 
so  moving,  that  before  she  finished  my  own  eyes  were 
wet.  It  was  but  one  more  of  those  tragedies  that  end 
the  lives  of  so  many  sea-faring  folk — a  brave  struggle 


APRIL    IN    THE    MARCHES  115 

with  the  storm,  a  prolonged  cruel  death,  clinging  to  the 
wreck  till  deadly  chill  and  washing  waves  ended  all. 
Even  death  did  not  loosen  the  despairing  hold  upon  the 
overturned  boat,  and  so  they  found  him. 

As  the  girl  talked,  with  tears  and  vehement  ges- 
tures, the  coast  guardsman  came  up,  a  fine  sturdy  fellow, 
and  added  his  calmer  explanations.  Yes,  Nello  had  been 
the  finest  fellow  on  the  shore,  so  strong,  so  industrious, 
a  famous  fisherman.  It  was  hard,  but  so  it  must  be. 
The  seas  claimed  some  every  year.  Lisetta  should  not 
stand  here  every  day  when  the  boats  came  in,  it  was 
trisfe,  but  she  would  not  be  kept  away.  Life  must  go 
on  and  the  rest  were  not  hard-hearted  that  they  must 
keep  on  with  their  labor,  as  though  death  had  not  come 
among  them.  The  hopelessness  of  lightening  such  grief 
saddened  the  afternoon  and  sent  us  home  heavy-hearted. 
In  the  still  evening  air  on  the  shore  of  that  tranquil  blue 
water  it  was  hard  to  realize  how  close  to  heart-break  lived 
these  toilers  of  the  sea — in  the  midst  of  what  peril, 
uncertainty,  menace,  their  years  are  passed ;  for  they  are 
not  an  uncheerful  folk,  and  the  bustle  and  activity  of 
poor  Nello's  companions  were  no  less  animated  that 
afternoon  for  the  cruelty  of  the  fate  that  had  just  over- 
taken him. 


IN   THE   ABRUZZI. 


On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 
With  a  diadem  of  snow. 


— Manfred. 


AS  any  water  in  the  world  the  surface 
of  pure  turquoise  blue  which  the 
Adriatic  showed  us  as  we  followed 
its  shore  beyond  San  Benedetto? 
Here  and  there  a  single  fishing-boat 
with  magically  dyed  sails  hovered 
near  and  seemed  to  slide  over  the 
glassy  expanse  almost  without  a  rip- 
ple, but  we  could  see  bird-like  flocks 

of  them  out  upon  the  horizon.  Then  we  turned  from  the 
coast-line  and  began  to  take  our  way  through  emerald  green 
valleys  opening  out  to  the  sea,  and  then  ascending  and 
leaving  these  behind  we  passed  through  gradations  of  a 
less  and  less  lavish  verdure  till  masses  of  rugged  brown 
rock  heaped  themselves  around  us  and  we  knew  we  were 
in  the  Abruzzi  and  approaching  Solmona.  One  has  a 
feeling  of  having  risen  considerably  in  altitude  and  yet 
Solmona  is  not  really  high  and  when  you  reach  it  you 
have  gained  not  much  over  fifteen  hundred  feet,  but  the 
progress  from  the  smiling  valleys  below  to  these  gaunt 
mountains  with  their  brown  scarred  sides  is  illusive. 
These  walls,  when  the  vicinity  of  Solmona  is  reached, 

116 


IN    THE    ABRUZZI  117 

retire  apart  and  leave  a  fine  broad  valley  at  the  upper  end 
of  which  sits  the  town,  "  my  cool  home  abounding  in 
water,"  as  poor  Ovid  called  it,  from  the  arid  waste  of  his 
long  exile ;  and  what  must  be  the  surprise  of  that  genial 
poet,  if  he  is  conscious  at  present  of  the  fact  that  his 
memory  survives  in  the  songs  of  the  peasants  here  as  that 
of  a  mighty  sorcerer. 

Solmona  is  not  a  walled  city  and  the  railway  station 
is  something  like  a  mile  beyond  the  town.  Between 
them  the  Monzu,  one  of  its  two  hotels,  is  almost  in  the 
country.  We  had  been  in  doubt  where  to  stop,  but  at 
sight  of  this  great  untempting  barrack  we  left  it  behind 
us  and  entered  the  closely  built  portion  of  the  city  where 
the  Italia  appeared  much  more  attractive.  Since  settling 
ourselves  in  it  we  find  our  rooms  assailed  by  noises  of 
many  sorts  from  within  as  well  as  from  without,  and  we 
can  to  a  certain  extent  take  part  in  the  affairs  which  pro- 
voke the  latter,  as  we  are  not  very  much  raised  above  the 
narrow  street  upon  which  our  windows  give.  The  space 
is  so  trifling  that  separates  us  from  those  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way,  and  the  near  view  of  roofs  and  balconies 
as  well  as  the  more  distant  one  of  mountain  peaks  is  so 
tempting  that  we  spend  considerable  time  communing 
with  the  outer  ;world  from  our  casements. 

We  have  also  sauntered  much  in  the  streets.  There 
is  a  fine,  extensive  market-place,  to  which  broad,  low 
stone  steps  descend  from  the  slightly  higher  level  of  the 
principal  street.  Walking  out  upon  this  piazza  and  then 
turning  for  a  backward  view,  a  harmonious  grouping  of 
unusual  architectural  points  is  seen.  Across  the  middle 
of  the  stone  staircase  creeps  like  a  great  caterpillar  a  low- 
arched  heavy  aqueduct,  and  just  beyond  towers  a  beauti- 
ful Romanesque  portal  with  a  bit  of  wall,  all  that  is  left 
of  the  ancient  church  which  once  stood  there,  while  still 
further  away  is  a  background  of  mounting  tiles,  a  peeping 


n8  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

loggia  and  a  little  round  tower.  The  foreground  leaves 
nothing  to  be  desired,  if  there  is  always  the  assemblage  of 
little  booths,  shaggy  donkeys  and  gossiping  crones  which 
we  saw. 

There  seems,  by  the  way,  an  unusual  preponderance 
of  old  women  here,  and  they  appear  in  brave  attire  and 
are  especially  fond  of  beads.  Around  their  withered 
throats  are  strings  of  dark  red  coral  or  large  gold  beads, 
and  their  ear-rings,  usually  of  gold  and  enamel,  are  so 
long  that  they  frequently  sweep  their  shoulders,  while 
they  look  too  heavy  to  be  worn  without  discomfort.  The 
matter  of  beads  is  a  local  interest  in  Italy.  Here  in 
Solmona,  as  I  have  said,  gold  beads  and  dark  red  coral 
seem  to  be  the  popular  varieties,  yet  when  I  examined 
what  I  had  taken  to  be  coral  I  decided  that  such  long 
strings,  so  perfect  in  shape  and  uniform  in  color,  could 
not  be  real  coral  at  all  but  must  be  a  substitute  for  it. 
The  gold  beads,  which  I  have  no  doubt  are  genuine,  are 
probably  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation  and 
it  gives  one  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  to  observe  that  here 
the  grandmothers  do  not  feel  it  necessary  to  despoil  them- 
selves of  their  adornments  and  retire  into  undecorated 
sobriety  while  the  younger  generation  flaunts  in  the  family 
jewels.  The  respect  for  age,  which  is  such  a  lovable  trait 
in  the  Italian  character,  would  consider  such  a  disposition 
of  family  treasures  entirely  unsuitable,  so  the  dear  old 
people  keep  their  importance  and  the  pleasurable  con- 
sciousness of  their  finery.  The  little  jeweler's  shop  here 
contains  some  interesting  engraved  seals,  looking  old  and 
genuine,  but  I  am  not  wise  enough  to  be  certain  of  their 
antiquity.  I  saw  no  pearls,  such  as  are  an  almost  indis- 
pensable part  of  a  contadinas  bridal  outfit  in  Tuscany. 
There  the  vezzo,  as  it  is  called,  consists  of  several  strings 
of  irregular  pearls,  and  may  cost  from  twenty-five  dollars 
to  several  hundred,  according  to  the  amount  which  her 


IN    THE    ABRUZZI  119 

father  can  afford  to  give  her,  or  which  her  own  ambition 
and  industry  has  put  by  for  the  purpose.  It  often  repre- 
sents in  value  one-half  her  dowry. 

In  other  shops  along  the  way,  numbers  of  sugar 
rosaries  were  exposed,  a  specialty  of  Solmona,  of  great 
size,  elaborate  decoration  and  most  brilliant  colors !  One 
wonders  who  buys  these  things,  which  must  be  expensive 
and  are  so  perishable.  Beyond  the  busier  portion  of  the 
town  we  came  upon  a  small  bindery,  where  a  few  curious 
tomes  of  real  antiquity  were  exposed  in  the  window.  A 
bindery  of  the  sort  in  this  little  place,  where  it  is  safe 
to  suppose  a  large  part  of  the  population  cannot  read, 
attracted  us  and  we  went  in.  The  binder  proved  to  be 
an  intelligent  man,  and  though  his  little  stock  contained 
but  a  few  volumes,  to  my  amazement  and  pleasure  almost 
the  first  I  took  up  was  one  I  had  long  wanted,  and  had 
thought  it  but  a  chance  to  find  even  in  Rome :  a  small 
yellowed  copy  of  Cavalca's  Lives  of  the  Holy  Fathers. 
I  gladly  paid  the  modest  price  he  demanded  for  the  little 
work  and  bore  it  off  in  triumph,  together  with  an  inter- 
esting old  book  lacking  one  of  its  parchment  covers, 
giving  delicately  executed  engravings  of  ecclesiastical 
emblems. 

Toward  evening  the  air  was  deliciously  fresh,  and 
the  sky  became  a  panorama  of  glorious  cloud  effects. 
We  found  a  rickety  little  carriage  with  a  boyish  driver, 
and  bade  him  carry  us  into  the  country  where  we  might 
command  a  wider  horizon.  As  one  emerges  from  the 
confinement  of  the  streets  a  little  structure  high  up  on 
the  mountain-side  catches  the  eye.  Clinging  against  the 
bare  cliff,  it  looks  almost  a  projection  of  the  rock  itself. 
It  is  the  retreat  of  that  pious  hermit,  Piero  da  Morrone, 
who,  snatched  from  his  holy  meditations  on  this  isolated 
crag  of  the  Abruzzi,  was  thrust  bewildered  upon  the 
papal  throne — that  Pope  who  "  made  the  great  refusal" 


120  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

and  in  the  stern  poet's  imagination  is  driven  endlessly 
through  hell,  stung  by  gadflies. 

As  we  advanced  we  soon  came  out  upon  the  broad, 
smooth  road,  whose  even,  dividing  line  runs  down  the 
middle  of  the  valley.  Green  growing  things  stretched 
away  on  either  side,  and  the  sweet,  pungent  smell  of 
some  unfamiliar  plant  tingled  in  the  nostrils.  Directly 
opposite  Solmona,  at  the  other  end  of  the  valley's  long 
perspective,  towering  skyward  from  the  converging  lines 
of  the  lower  ridges  which  enclose  it,  rose  the  highest  peak 
of  the  Apennines,  II  Gran  Sasso  d'  Italia,  the  Great 
Stone  of  Italy,  a  fine  name,  so  direct  and  simple,  as 
though  this  majestic  mountain  required  no  grandiose 
title.  Its  pure  snow-enveloped  outline  rose  against  the 
evening  sky, — a  sky  of  that  pale,  clear  green  that  seems 
to  make  distance  infinite.  It  was  the  supreme  moment 
in  which  to  see  it,  and  words  fail  to  convey  an  idea  of 
the  grandeur  and  beauty  with  which  it  dominated  the 
landscape  as  the  gathering  twilight  threw  the  dun  ranges 
below  more  and  more  into  the  shadow  and  concentrated 
the  light  and  color  above — the  light  seeming  almost  to 
emanate  from  the  snow-white  mass  of  the  mountain, 
while  the  color  upon  which  it  was  projected  grew  more 
vivid  and  radiant.  Watching  the  wonderful  and  ever- 
shifting  changes  that  belong  to  this  hour,  we  forgot 
time, — yes,  and  the  very  hamperings  of  gravitation,  and 
seemed  to  be  swimming  forward  through  the  clear  upper 
air  to  meet  the  phantoms  beyond  us.  Our  little  nag  even 
appeared  to  taste  the  intoxication  of  the  moment  and 
tossed  his  head  as  he  strained  forward.  Only  the  warn- 
ing of  darkness  made  us  turn  at  last  to  leave  the  fading 
glories  behind,  and,  fastened  to  earth  again,  retrace  our 
steps  to  the  twinkling  lights  of  Solmona. 

The  following  morning  dawned  bright  and  beautiful, 
but  before  eight  the  sky  was  overcast  and  an  occasional 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


IN   THE    ABRUZZI  ,21 

flash  of  lightning  played  among  the  black  clouds. 
Church  bells  began  to  ring.  One  was  answered  by 
another,  till  at  last  the  whole  air  vibrated  with  a  multi- 
tudinous tolling.  We  inquired  of  our  waiter  the  reason 
and  he  explained  that  it  threatened  a  heavy  hail-storm, 
and  that  when  one  came  at  this  season  of  the  year  it 
sometimes  destroyed  all  the  crops  of  the  valley,  even  the 
fruit;  so  the  bells  were  all  ringing  to  beseech  God's 
mercy  and  avert  the  danger.  I  was  glad  to  notice  that 
only  a  few  hailstones  fell,  then  rain  came  and  the  storm 
blew  over. 

We  consulted  our  host  about  the  possibility  of 
going  to  Scanno,  a  mountain  village  some  sixteen  miles 
away.  He  looked  dubious,  and  raised  his  eyebrows  at 
the  idea  of  trying  to  spend  a  night  there.  He  believed 
that  we  should  fare  badly.  Would  there  not  be  any- 
thing to  eat  ?  we  asked.  No,  of  a  truth,  it  would  be 
nothing  short  of  starvation  to  attempt  it.  But,  we 
argued,  for  a  short  time  we  could  put  up  with  almost 
anything.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  hopelessly.  The 
inhabitants,  we  urged,  must  be  obliged  to  have  some 
sustenance  themselves ;  we  might  subsist  for  twenty-four 
hours  upon  local  fare.  Driven  to  the  wall,  he  allowed 
that  there  might  possibly  be  chicken,  but  no  veal  — 
not  a  morsel !  The  absence  of  veal  did  not  strike  us  as 
the  terrible  deprivation  it  appeared  to  him.  Indeed,  at 
home  we  had  never  been  accustomed  to  regard  veal  as 
the  staff  of  life,  nor  indeed  as  a  valued  dainty.  In 
Italy  it  is  different ;  there  is  no  doubt  that  here  it  is  a 
much  prized  and  respected  viand.  However,  after  some 
indecision,  we  concluded  to  compromise  on  going  for 
the  day  and  carrying  our  luncheon  with  us,  an  arrange- 
ment which  proved  later  to  have  been  the  part  of  wisdom. 

After  the  usual  amount  of  time  given  to  bargaining 
for  a  carriage,  we  sallied  forth,  and,  wheeling  to  the  east, 


122  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

began  to  follow  a  tributary  valley,  from  which  we  soon 
struck  into  a  wild,  rocky  ravine,  at  the  bottom  of  which 
babbled  the  fine  mountain  stream  of  the  Sagittario.  It 
was  a  stern  defile  of  surprising  length,  and  from  the 
edges  of  beetling  cliffs  above  us  stony  little  towns  gazed 
down  with  suspicious  distrust,  at  least  so  it  seemed  to  us. 
They  were  secure  from  attack  as  far  as  we  were  con- 
cerned, for  whatever  approach  they  may  have  had  was 
not  discernible  from  the  Sagittario.  It  must  have  been 
at  least  two  hours  before  we  issued  from  the  defile  and 
came  into  view  of  Scanno.  We  began  to  meet  the 
women  and  girls  of  the  village,  as  in  twos  or  threes  they 
descended  the  long  hill  which  led  down  from  it  on  the 
way  to  a  certain  distant  little  chapel  which  they  favored, 
for  it  was  Sunday.  Their  demeanor  was  dignified  and 
their  dress  curiously  gloomy  for  an  Italian  costume,  for 
here  was  really  a  national  costume  strictly  adhered  to  by 
the  whole  population.  The  gown  with  full  skirt  and 
close-fitting  body  was  black  or  very  dark  green,  relieved 
by  a  narrow  band  of  white  at  the  throat  and  invariable 
in  form  and  finish,  even  to  the  number  of  little  white 
buttons  which  fastened  it  at  the  neck.  Broad  heelless 
felt  shoes  covered  the  feet,  and  on  the  top  of  the  head 
rested  a  curious  head-dress  of  black  cloth  folded  to 
resemble  a  circular  flat  cap  about  four  inches  high,  lined 
and  turned  up  with  white  at  the  sides,  leaving  one 
straight,  narrow  end  to  fall  over  the  hair  at  the  back. 
Of  the  hair,  however,  very  little  was  to  be  seen.  It  was 
divided  into  strands,  tightly  braided  and  wound  with 
what  looked  to  our  careful  observation  like  black  or 
brown  worsted.  The  stiff  plaits,  in  which  the  natural 
tresses  were  now  entirely  concealed  by  the  woolen  cover- 
ing, were  then  looped  and  coiled  at  the  back  of  the  head. 
This,  as  can  be  seen,  was  a  more  peculiar  than  beautiful 
costume,  yet  it  seemed  to  become  the  young  women, 


IN    THE    ABRUZZI  123 

who  were  unusually  handsome  and  rosy-cheeked.  It 
appears  to  be  a  very  unmixed  race,  with  a  deep  olive  and 
rich  red  of  the  southern  complexion  quite  unaffected  by 
the  German  admixture  which  is  so  evident  in  the 
north. 

Our  driver  had  stopped  at  the  gates,  for  the  streets 
of  Scanno  are  not  calculated  for  the  entrance  of  any 
vehicle,  and  we  advanced  on  foot  under  the  escort  of  an 
ever-increasing  flock  of  children.  Twenty-five  of  the 
most  persevering  of  these  (we  counted  them)  attached 
themselves  to  us  for  our  stay  and  never  left  us  for  a 
moment.  And  I  will  admit  that  the  inhabitants  inter- 
ested us  more  than  the  town  itself,  where  a  condition  of 
dirt  and  ill  odors  prevailed,  surprising  in  contrast  to  the 
self-respecting  and  cleanly  appearance  of  its  women. 
The  latter  carefully  banished  from  their  demeanor  any 
apparent  consciousness  of  our  presence  and  their  distant 
manner,  together  with  their  beauty  and  fine  clothes,  took 
from  us  the  courage  to  ask  them  to  pose  for  us,  which 
we  longed  to  do.  Not  till  we  had  left  the  village,  and, 
bidding  our  driver  follow  us,  had  begun  to  stroll  down 
the  hill  did  fate  come  to  our  rescue. 

Mass  was  evidently  over  and  the  devout  were 
returning.  The  opportunity  was  so  favorable  for  look- 
ing at  them  that  we  seated  ourselves  against  a  bank  at 
one  side  of  the  road  to  have  a  pretext  for  deliberate 
observation.  At  last,  to  our  surprise,  two  substantial 
elderly  women  stopped  before  us  and  one  of  them,  with 
a  courteous,  deprecating  manner,  said  pleasantly : 

"  Do  the  ladies  not  find  it  uncomfortable  to  sit  on 
the  ground  thus  ? " 

We  assured  them  that  we  were  quite  at  ease  and 
only  resting  a  little  before  beginning  our  drive  home, 
and  from  this  propitious  commencement  we  had  soon 
reached  the  point  of  asking  if  we  might  photograph 


124  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

them,  to  which  they  agreed  at  once,  the  first  one  remain- 
ing always  spokeswoman  while  the  other  stood  smilingly 
by.  Before  we  separated  she  requested  that  we  might 
be  so  kind  as  to  send  them  each  a  copy  of  the  picture 
when  it  should  be  finished,  and  wrote  her  address  for  us 
easily  and  in  excellent  script.  Her  bearing  was  so 
dignified  and  her  voice  so  agreeable  and  well-modulated 
that  we  left  her  wondering  very  much  whether  she  at  all 
represented  the  average  of  attainment  in  Scanno  or  was 
a  notable  exception. 

In  stopping  at  a  town  like  Solmona  it  is  an  excellent 
plan  to  choose  the  hotel  frequented  by  army  officers. 
Whatever  disadvantages  it  may  have,  there  is  sure  to 
be  good  food,  and  this  is  the  case  at  the  Italia.  Service 
is  slow,  but  then  we,  as  mere  travelers,  are  of  secondary 
importance.  A  little  observation  showed  us  that  half 
past  six  was  a  good  hour  for  dining,  for,  as  we  were  the  only 
women,  we  could  then  mercifully  remove  the  restraint  of 
our  presence  before  the  army  had  more  than  half  finished 
its  repast.  The  most  important  table,  set  in  the  middle 
of  the  dining-room,  is  sacred  to  the  profession,  and  soon 
after  seven  various  members  of  it, —  tall,  fine-looking 
men,  enveloped  in  beautiful  long  blue  cloaks, —  begin  to 
assemble.  The  one  who  sits  nearest  our  table  has  placed 
beside  his  chair  a  lower  stool.  When  he  arrives  he 
strides  across  the  room  in  all  the  splendor  of  spurs  and 
clanking  sword,  and  with  unmoved  seriousness  produces 
from  an  inner  pocket  a  minute  dog,  which  he  deposits 
with  decision  upon  the  stool.  He  starts  across  the  room 
again  in  the  direction  of  the  sideboard,  but  if  the  small 
dog,  imprudently  impatient,  ventures  to  spring  from  the 
stool  and  follow  him,  his  master  wheels  round,  replaces 
and  severely  reprimands  him.  He  then  marches  to  the 
sideboard  and  returns  with  a  lump  of  sugar,  which,  with 
as  deep  solemnity  as  before,  he  administers  to  his  favorite. 


IN    THE    ABRUZZI  125 

Later  the  little  animal  is  served  with  a  plate  of  the  best 
the  table  affords,  and  sups  contentedly  beside  his  master. 
By  half  past  seven  we  have  retired  to  our  rooms, 
and,  though  great  decorum  has  been  preserved  while  we 
were  present,  the  noise  afterwards  is  loud  and  long. 
Sometimes  it  indicates  pure  conviviality,  and  sometimes 
swells  to  a  suggestion  of  hostility,  but  in  the  latter  case 
we  fear  nothing ;  with  this  mercurial  people  such  alterna- 
tions are  rapid  and  harmless.  For  instance,  in  the 
proximity  to  opposite  neighbors  into  which  you  are 
sometimes  thrown  by  the  narrowness  of  streets,  it 
may  happen  that  on  a  warm  afternoon,  through  the 
medium  of  open  windows,  you  are  almost  present  at  a 
quarrel  between  husband  and  wife.  Voices  rise  high, 
tones  become  strenuous,  you  are  concerned  at  the  dis- 
turbance of  family  tranquility.  Alack !  this  is  but  the 
beginning;  with  the  suddenness  of  a  thunder-shower 
fury  takes  possession  of  this  once  loving  pair,  their  voices 
mount  to  a  scream,  they  storm,  they  hurl  injurious 
epithets.  You  tremble,  and  in  fancy  see  the  structure  of 
their  domestic  bliss  lying  in  ruins  at  their  feet.  The 
clamor  augments;  there  will  certainly  be  blows.  Horror 
takes  possession  of  you  ;  this  breach  can  never  be  healed  ; 
it  must  end  in  divorce  !  But  the  uproar  waxes  louder  and 
louder  ;  blood  will  surely  flow ;  there  will  be  murder  in 
another  moment !  What  is  to  be  done  ?  The  police 
can  never  be  called  in  time  ;  will  no  one  in  the  opposite 
building  interfere  ?  ^  In  distress  you  hurry  to  the  window, 
and,  terrified,  lean  forth  that  you  may  hear  the  better. 
But  what  is  this?  There  is  a  lull.  A  dead  silence 
ensues.  Has  something  terrible  taken  place  ?  Does  one 
stand  in  pale  affright  over  the  corpse  of  the  other  ?  You 
shudder ;  you  become  more  and  more  apprehensive  as  the 
tension  lasts ;  your  imagination  flies  from  one  conjecture 
to  another,  and  as  the  hush  continues  you  begin  to  feel  a 


iz6  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

faintness  stealing  over  you.  But  listen !  Can  it  be  that 
you  catch  the  sound  of  a  conversational  word  or  two  ? 
With  quaking  heart  you  strain  your  ears  that  you  may 
not  miss  the  smallest  sound.  A  moment  later  you 
glance  down,  and,  hardly  able  to  believe  your  eyes,  see 
husband  and  wife  emerge  amicably  from  the  street  door 
and  stroll  cheerfully  off  together  for  a  walk.  Thus  it 
may  be  seen  how,  even  in  the  comparative  seclusion  of 
Solmona,  a  dull  monotony  may  be  eliminated  from  the 
lives  of  those  to  whom  the  outside  world  does  not 
appear  to  contribute  much  of  an  eventful  nature. 

AVEZZANO. 

Leaving  Solmona,  we  wound  our  way  among  the 
heights  and  depressions  of  the  Abruzzi  and  at  last 
crossed  the  very  backbone  of  the  Apennine  system 
before  beginning  to  drop  toward  the  valley  of  Avezzano. 
Toward  evening  we  issued  from  a  winding  pass,  to  find 
ourselves  still  high  up  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  wall 
encircling  a  wondrous  valley — a  vision  of  beauty,  bathed 
in  such  magic  color  as  may 'greet  the  happy  traveler 
who  arrives  in  a  fortunate  hour.  Far  below  lay  the  floor 
of  the  valley,  level  as  a  tableland  all  around  without 
the  intervention  of  foothills  '-  rose  ,  splendid  purple 
shoulders  and  snow-capped  peaksi  A  sky  full  of  huge 
masses  of  dark 'cloud  laid  deep '  blue  and  amethyst 
shadows  upon  it  all,  but  through  rifts  and  breaks  near 
the  horizon  shafts  of  sunlight  poured  in  and  touched  a 
glittering  patch  of  snow  here  and  there.  On  the  right 
as  we  descended,  the  warlike  little  city  'of  Celano 
clambered  up  the  rock  where  that  towered  and  bastioned 
stronghold  frowned,  within  which  the  unfortunate  Coun- 
tess Covella  was  once  besieged  by  her  unfilial  son 
Rugierotto.  And  this  is  not  the  only  association  with 


IN    THE    ABRUZZI  127 

Celano.  Here  also  was  born  the  author  of  that  most 
famous  of  old  Latin  hymns,  the  Dies  Ir<e,  even  the 
translation  of  which  glared  lurid  in  my  childish  imagina- 
tion, when  I  repeated  with  awe  the  opening  line, 

"  Day  of  wrath,  and  day  of  burning." 

Now  a  group  of  women  with  their  copper  buckets 
of  rich  tint  stood  round  the  tall  fountain  in  the  open 
piazza  and  its  whole  aspect  was  so  peaceful  and  wel- 
coming that  we  were  reluctant  to  pass  it  by.  We 
could  not  stay  our  feet,  however,  for  the  longest  and 
most  leisurely  journey  in  Italy  does  not  afford  time  to 
yield  to  all  the  temptations  that  offer  themselves.  Our 
progress  must  be  broken  only  at  Avezzano,  and  it  already 
lay  within  sight  below  us.  To  it  we  had  been  lured  by 
interest  in  the  wonderful  work  accomplished  there  by 
Prince  Torlonia.  We  desired  to  see  the  Roman 
Emissarius  and  the  great  farms  occupying  the  now 
drained  Lake  Fucino,  so  we  paused  not  until  we  had 
reached  the  door  of  its  one  hostelry,  the  Victory,  from 
whose  large  open  court  we  climbed,  conducted  by  a  decrepit 
crone,  with  a  single  flickering  candle,  to  our  lodging  for 
the  night. 

In  the  morning  light  a  look  from  our  elevated 
chamber  window  showed  us  Avezzano  as  an  inconsider- 
able little  village,  and  the  Victory  as  having  its  place 
upon  an  irregularly  shaped  piazza,  very  large  and  empty, 
and  with  high-shouldered  old  buildings  partly  surrounding 
it.  Later  in  the  morning,  having  developed  a  plan  of  sight- 
seeing with  the  help  of  the  padrone,  we  sallied  forth,  and 
diagonally  crossing  the  square,  entered  a  gateway  and 
were  in  a  wide-stretching  garden,  which  flanked  the 
imposing  building,  a  falazzo  in  outward  appearance, 
which  contained  the  offices  and  granaries  of  Prince 


iz8  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

Torlonia.  A  civil  official  put  us  in  charge  of  one  of  the 
employees  and  we  wandered  through  the  garden  to  a  little 
circular  pavilion,  from  whose  veranda  we  stepped  into  a 
tiny  museum,  a  museum  of  old  and  new,  the  remnants  of 
a  civilization  perhaps  older  than  the  Christian  era,  side  by 
side  with  the  freshest  products  of  a  soil  tilled  with  modern 
knowledge.  Pottery  there  was  of  varied  shapes,  some  in 
fragments,  some  still  perfect;  heavy  bronze  helmets, 
weapons,  armor,  in  all  the  rich  shades  of  green  and  brown 
which  time  produces  upon  these  beautiful  forms  of  antique 
workmanship.  The  lake  as  it  shrank  had  yielded  up^its 
secrets,  domestic  life  and  fierce  warfare  had  left  their  sym- 
bols to  be  gathered  up  by  the  posterity  of  those  earlier 
inhabitants.  Even  the  history  of  the  great  emissary 
pictured  upon  marble  bas-reliefs  has  filled  in  the  conjec- 
tures and  researches  of  the  present.  But  hardly  less 
interesting,  in  contrast,  was  the  more  recent  yield  of  the 
lake's  bed ;  the  heavy  sheaves  of  grain,  the  nuts  of  extraor- 
dinary size,  the  rich  creamy  masses  of  silk  in  its  natural 
color  as  wound  from  the  cocoon,  the  luscious  fruits  pre- 
served in  spirits,  the  wine,  the  oil,  the  innumerable 
variety  that  a  rich  soil  can  produce,  only  part  of  which 
of  course  can  be  placed  on  exhibition  in  a  pretty  little 
pavilion  in  the  midst  of  a  walled  garden. 

From  the  open  air  we  entered,  the  cool  interior  of 
the  large  building  and  were  then  shown  the  grain  in 
bulk,  of  the  various  kinds  housed  at  that  season,  only-  a 
little  of  the  year's  growth,  our  guide  said  slightingly,  but 
to  us  the  amount  was  surprising.  In  great  spaces  hun- 
dreds of  feet  long,  solidly  built,  and  as  heavily  arched 
with  masonry  as  the  crypt  of  a  cathedral,  lay  the  yellow 
grain,  in  golden  hillocks,  with  valleys  and  gaps  between, 
much  more  impressive  than  as  though  it  had  been  „  con- 
fined in  sacks.  Different  crops  occupied  different  floors, 
and  climbing  higher  and  higher,  we  at  last  reached  the 


IN    THE   ABRUZZI  129 

top  of  the  building,  and  coming  out  into  the  open  air, 
the  geography  of  the  neighboring  country  spread  itself 
out  before  us.  Upon  the  different  levels  of  the  roof, 
with  their  terrace-like  expanses  bordered  by  iron  railings, 
we  could  linger  as  long  as  we  pleased,  and  we  sat  drink- 
ing in  the  delicious  morning  air,  and  trying  to  imagine 
the  romance  of  the  march  of  history  as  it  had  passed 
over  the  ground  before  us. 

Juvenile  fairy  tales  have  much  to  say  about  fairy 
princes,  but  if  such  there  were  in  those  happy  days,  and 
in  our  more  prosaic  ones  a  sober,  middle-aged  man  may 
take  the  place  of  a  slim  and  beautiful  youth,  then  Prince 
Torlonia  is  surely  a  fairy  prince.  To  tell  the  story  of 
the  magic  he  has  wrought  one  must  go  back  into  a  past 
as  old  as  the  Christian  era,  indeed  some  years  behind  it, 
when  the  broad  plain  and  its  surrounding  heights  were 
the  abode  of  an  athletic  tribe  of  mountaineers,  the  Marsi, 
among  the  last  inhabitants  of  Italy  to  submit  to  the 
power  of  Rome.  Their  valley  and  their  independent 
life  were  very  dear  to  them,  but  their  fair  lake,  apparently 
the  crowning  gift  and  beauty  of  their  province,  was  an 
ever-present  menace  and  anxiety.  This  lake,  some 
thirty-seven  miles  in  circumference  and  sixty-five  feet  in 
depth,  had  no  outlet,  and  so,  in  the  season  of  snow  torrents 
from  the  mountains,  was  subject  to  great  variations  of 
its  level,  frequently  disastrous  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
banks.  In  years  of  inundation,  say  the  old  historians, 
it  became  a  raging  sea,  almost  filling  the  valley,  and 
engulfing  whole  villages,  after  which,  when  the  water 
subsided,  unhealthy  marshes  remained  in  the  low  ground, 
emitting  poisonous  miasma,  and  with  the  summer  heats, 
bringing  fever  and  disease. 

Their  suffering  in  life  and  property,  however,  accord- 
ing to  their  belief,  was  a  thing  to  be  borne,  to  be  mourned, 
but  not  to  be  remedied.  To  build  dykes,  to  divert 


130  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

waters,  to  cut  through  an  isthmus  or  to  drain  a  swamp, 
were  affronts  not  likely  to  be  borne  good-temperedly 
by  the  mythologic  deities,  to  whose  will  the  wayward 
behavior  of  their  lake  was  due.  All  that  could  properly 
be  done  they  did,  which  was  to  multiply  sacrifices  upon 
those  altars  already  in  existence,  and  to  raise  fresh  ones 
directly  upon  the  banks  of  the  lake,  dedicating  them  with 
propitiatory  offerings  and  earnest  supplications.  Nothing, 
however,  seemed  to  move  the  goddesses  to  less  capricious 
behavior,  and  time  after  time  the  fertile  valley  was  filled 
with  panic  and  suffering.  At  length  this  grievous  con- 
dition of  affairs  came  under  the  consideration  of  Julius 
Caesar,  and  a  great  mind,  unconfined  by  the  prejudices  of 
its  age,  immediately  comprehended  the  natural  cause  of  the 
disturbance  and  projected  itself  to  the  remedy.  He  realized 
too  a  danger  wider  than  the  mere  compass  of  the  sore- 
tried  valley,  the  rendering  unproductive  of  a  great  extent 
of  territory  in  central  Italy,  and  the  discouragement  to 
agriculture,  especially  inconvenient  as  affecting  part  of 
the  natural  source  of  the  food-supply  of  Rome.  He 
thought  of  a  grand  hydraulic  undertaking,  and  at  the 
same  time  of  a  highway  constructed  which  should  cross 
the  peninsula,  join  the  Adriatic  to  the  capital,  and  thence 
extend  to  a  great  seaport  at  Ostia.  Included  was  the 
draining  of  the  Pontine  marshes,  and  to  this  he  joined  in 
his  mind  a  canal  through  the  isthmus  of  Corinth,  thus 
restoring  health  to  three  sickly  regions,  opening  a  high- 
way to  the  marching  armies  of  Rome  and  abridging  the 
distance  which  separated  it  from  the  Orient. 

A  magnificent  scheme,  but  a  great  life  cut  off  almost 
before  its  prime  put  an  end  to  these  vast  projects,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Claudius  that  any 
part  of  them  was  resumed.  There  was  then  added  reason 
directly  pressing  upon  Rome,  the  frequent  danger  from 
years  of  threatened  famine.  The  source  of  a  great  supply 


IN   THE    ABRUZZI  131 

to  the  Eternal  City  was  often  cut  off;  it  seemed  worth 
while  to  try  to  put  through  the  scheme  of  Caesar. 

Ways  and  means  were  discussed.  No  valley  led 
down  from  the  great  table-land,  one  of  the  largest  in  the 
Apennines.  It  lay,  entirely  separated  from  the  adjacent 
valleys,  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  at  the  level  of 
the  lake.  But  beyond  the  mountains,  some  three  or  four 
miles  to  the  west,  ran  the  river  Liris,  parallel  for  a  short 
distance,  a  clear,  dashing  stream  hurrying  down  from  the 
mountains  and  by  more  leisurely  turnings  upon  the  plains 
finding  its  way  to  its  outlet  south  of  Rome.  Between 
lay  Monte  Salviano,  rearing  its  head  a  thousand  feet 
above,  and  also  another  plain,  lying  at  an  altitude  above 
that  of  the  Fucino  basin.  To  pierce  this  distance  with  a 
tunnel,  to  carry  it  through  hard,  compact  calcareous  rock, 
with  the  primitive  pick  and  chisel  and  with  none  of  our 
modern  aids  of  machinery,  steam,  blasting-powder  or 
air-pumps :  this  was  the  daring  project  of  the  first  century, 
and  an  engineer  was  found  equal  to  the  planning  of  the 
necessary  details.  Unfortunately  his  name  and  identity 
have  perished,  and  it  is  only  too  evident  that  he  was  not 
allowed  to  carry  out  his  own  plans. 

Alas !  that  we  cannot  associate  pastoral  innocence 
and  simplicity  with  the  proceedings  of  those  early  times. 
Corruption  and  favoritism  seem  to  have  been  almost  as 
rife  in  the  infancy  of  our  era  as  they  are  to-day.  To  the 
Emperor's  favorite" and  secretary,  Narcissus,  the  Greek 
freedman,  was  intrusted  the  carrying  out  of  the  plan. 
The  minor  requirements  of  knowledge  of  the  work  or 
fitness  for  it  were  not  insisted  upon,  for  Narcissus  pos- 
sessed the  one  most  important,  then  as  now — influence. 
The  Emperor  doted  upon  him,  confided  in  him  and  was 
completely  unaware  that  Narcissus  was  false  and  unworthy, 
the  confederate  of  the  young  Empress  Messalina,  that 
creature  of  beauty  and  fascination  whose  qualities  enabled 


i  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

her  to  make  her  name  a  by-word  of  infamy  for  all  time 
before  her  career  was  closed  at  the  hands  of  this  very 
Narcissus  at  the  age  of  twenty-three.  History  does  not 
tell  how  much  of  his  leisure  Narcissus  gave  to  the  super- 
intendence of  the  excavations,  but  they  went  on  for  eleven 
years,  during  which  time  thirty  thousand  men  were 
employed ;  and  in  its  construction,  besides  the  excavation 
of  the  tunnel  itself,  some  forty  vertical  wells  and  oblique 
galleries  were  opened  for  the  admission  of  air  and  the 
removal  of  rubbish.  It  was  the  most  gigantic  undertak- 
ing ever  known  until  the  modern  one  of  the  Mont  Cenis 
tunnel.  As  at  his  death  the  property  of  Narcissus 
amounted  to  more  than  fifteen  millions,  he  at  least  made 
the  work  profitable,  nor  is  it  surprising  to  know  that  it 
was  ill  done. 

At  length  the  day  came  when  the  emissarius  was  ready 
to  be  opened.  It  was  to  be  marked  by  one  of  those  glori- 
ous Roman  holidays  whose  annals  drip  with  blood ;  it  was 
to  be  celebrated  by  a  grand  naval  contest  upon  the  lake 
before  its  waters  received  the  indignity  of  being  lowered 
by  the  hand  of  man ;  and  the  Marsi  were  somewhat  com- 
forted to  contemplate  the  copious  libation  to  be  poured 
out  to  their  deities,  whose  just  wrath  would  undoubtedly 
be  excited  by  this  sacrilegious  interference.  Trees  were 
felled  in  the  mountains  and  conveyed  to  the  shore,  where 
two  fleets  of  triremes  were  constructed;  and  when  the 
preparations  were  completed,  up  from  Rome  came  the 
imperial  cavalcade,  and  Claudius  with  his  new  Empress 
Agrippina  and  her  young  son  Nero  were  lodged  in  the 
sumptuous  pavilions  prepared  for  them.  Crowds  of 
Romans  and  throngs  of  the  people  of  the  whole  country- 
side gathered  to  the  spot,  and  when  the  time  came  and 
Claudius  was  seated  upon  his  raised  throne,  with  Agrippina 
superbly  dressed  in  a  military  habit  of  cloth-of-gold  beside 
him,  past  them  marched  the  nineteen  thousand  prisoners 


IN    THE   ABRUZZI  133 

whose  slaughter  was  to  form  the  enjoyment  of  the  hour. 
<c  Ave  Caesar,  we  who  are  about  to  die  salute  you,"  was 
pronounced  as  the  condemned  heads  bowed  before  the 
throne,  and  the  forgetful  Emperor,  whose  good-natured 
absent-mindedness  frequently  ordered  the  execution  of  a 
man  one  day  and  sent  him  an  invitation  to  supper  on  the 
next,  politely  responded  "Avete  vos."  Quick  looks 
passed  between  the  doomed  men;  hope  lightened  their 
steps  as  they  passed  on.  The  Emperor  had  wished  them 
health^  it  was  evident  that  he  absolved  them  from  death ; 
there  was,  then,  to  be  a  parade  but  no  battle,  and  in  the 
general  joy  their  lives  were  to  be  spared. 

The  ships  were  drawn  up  in  order,  the  rowers  at  the 
banks  of  oars ;  the  shore  was  lined  with  praetorian  guards. 
At  the  Emperor's  sign  a  silver  Triton  sprang  from  the 
water  between  the  fleets,  the  signal  of  battle.  The  throng 
waited  but  the  ships  lay  motionless.  Moments  went 
by,  discontented  murmurs  rose.  The  Emperor  angrily 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  messengers  ran  hurriedly  to 
and  fro. 

"  What  is  wrong  ? " 

"  Oh,  simply  those  poor  fools  fancy  we  are  not  in 
earnest ! " 

"  Death  and  destruction  !  are  we  to  be  balked  of 
our  pleasure  thus  ?  Let  the  combat  begin,  let  it  rage 
hotly,  or  by  all  the  gods,  turn  on  the  catapults  and  sink 
the  fleets  with  every  soul  on  board  ! " 

Tacitus  tells  us  that  thus  encouraged  they  bore 
themselves  gallantly.  It  was  better  to  die  in  the  heat  of 
conflict  than  to  meet  a  fate  as  certain  and  more  ignoble. 
They  fought  till  the  decks  were  slippery,  till  the  waters 
of  Lake  Fucino  were  red  with  blood  and  the  most  eager 
spectator  was  filled  with  delight.  Not  till  then  was  the 
slaughter  stopped  and  those  left  alive  permitted  to  stay 
their  hands. 


134  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

After  this  came  the  hour  for  opening  the  flood-gates 
at  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel.  In  a  loud  voice  word  was 
given,  but  alas  !  instead  of  a  great  sensation,  a  burst  of 
rushing  waters,  hardly  more  than  a  feeble  trickle,  answered 
the  anticipations  of  the  spectators  and  the  vain  confidence 
of  Narcissus.  The  brow  of  the  Emperor,  whose  temper 
was  already  uncertain  since  the  inauspicious  beginning 
of  the  entertainment,  clouded  heavily.  Agrippina,  the 
determined  enemy  of  Narcissus,  saw  her  opportunity, 
and,  rejoicing  in  the  advantage  it  offered  her,  loudly 
charged  the  favorite  with  greed  and  peculation,  and  of 
insult  to  the  Emperor  in  this  pretended  costly  preparation 
and  complete  failure.  Well  might  Narcissus  tremblingly 
realize  that  in  this  moment  his  very  life  hung  by  a  thread, 
and  with  difficulty  did  his  anxious  explanations  and 
beseechings  procure  him  a  respite  of  a  few  days  for 
repairing  the  error  made  in  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  not 
excavated  to  a  sufficient  depth.  Fortunately  prepara- 
tions had  been  made  for  a  stay  of  several  days ;  places 
for  shelter  and  for  amusement  had  been  built,  and  Nar- 
cissus distractedly  divided  himself  between  urging  on 
the  revels  and  banquetings  upon  the  shore,  while  day 
and  night  he  spurred  the  toil  upon  the  further  excava- 
tions. The  channel  was  deepened,  a  reservoir  prepared 
to  receive  the  first  rush  of  the  waters,  and  over  it  a 
gorgeous  pavilion  was  erected,  in  which  the  imperial 
party  might  enjoy  the  sight  while  partaking  of  a  tempt- 
ing feast.  Narcissus  declared  that  all  was  ready. 

The  ceremonies  opened  with  a  gladiatorial  combat, 
only  less  sanguinary  than  the  naval  battle  and  perhaps 
even  more  enjoyable,  since  the  gory  details  could  be 
watched  at  closer  range.  Then  came  the  second  trial, 
and  this  time  Narcissus  had  succeeded  only  too  well. 
The  released  water  dashed  foaming  into  the  reservoir, 
and,  washing  away  the  supports  of  the  pavilion,  nearly 


IN   THE   ABRUZZI  135 

drowned  Claudius  and  his  whole  court.  Agrippina  now 
felt  that  her  hour  of  vengeance  had  come.  With  well- 
feigned  fury  she  poured  accusations  upon  Narcissus. 
She  called  gods  and  men  to  witness  that  his  infamous 
attempt  was  to  slay  the  Emperor  and  it  had  all  but  suc- 
ceeded. She  adjured  her  husband  not  to  expose  his 
sacred  person  to  the  menacing  presence  of  such  a  wretch. 
What  fate  did  he  deserve  milder  than  that  of  instant 
execution?  And  Narcissus,  barely  escaping  her  frenzied 
demands  for  his  death,  was  fortunate  to  be  allowed  to  go 
into  banishment, — fortunate  for  the  moment,  but  there 
was  a  thoroughness  about  Agrippina's  manager- c:nt  of 
her  affairs  that  left  nothing  half  finished.  Narcissus  alive 
was  a  possible  cause  of  danger.  The  Emperor  was 
foolish  and  doting.  He  was  forgetful  and  would  forgive. 
She  waited  only  a  short  time  before  sending  a  trusted 
lieutenant  to  quietly  murder  Narcissus  and  thus  put  him 
beyond  the  power  of  creating  further  embarrassment. 

It  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  serious  errors 
had  been  committed  in  the  construction  of  the  great 
emissarius,  and  it  was  not  long  before  it  was  choked  up. 
Claudius  made  some  attempts  to  repair  it,  but  he  died 
two  years  later  and  nothing  further  was  done  in  the 
matter.  In  the  Middle  Ages  the  ever-present  trouble 
with  the  lake  induced  Frederick  II  to  try  to  reopen  it, 
but  such  a  thing  was  far  beyond  the  skill  of  that  epoch. 
After  1783  the  lake  became  even  more  threatening,  in 
the  next  twenty  years  rising  thirty  feet,  but  it  was  not 
till  another  forty  years  had  passed  that  the  government 
was  induced  to  take  the  matter  in  hand.  A  grant  of  all 
the  land  uncovered  in  the  draining  of  the  lake  was  to  be 
bestowed  on  the  person  or  persons  who  undertook  it, 
and  in  the  end  the  person  was  realized  in  Prince  Torlonia. 

His  plan  was  a  scheme  of  a  very  thorough  kind. 
The  first  gallery  had  been  intended  to  regulate  the  level 


136  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

of  the  lake;  the  second  aimed  at  nothing  less  than  the 
complete  draining  of  the  basin.  Such  a  design  would 
surely  have  turned  dizzy  any  one  but  the  owner  of  a 
steady  head  and  an  almost  bottomless  purse,  but  Prince 
Alessandro  Torlonia  was  possessed  of  both,  and  in  1854 
the  work  began.  Almost  insurmountable  difficulties 
were  encountered,  but  year  after  year  the  work  went  on, 
not  pausing  even  when  the  din  of  battle  almost  reached 
the  mountain  valley.  The  ancient  emissarius  was  to  be 
used  as  far  as  possible,  and  for  four  miles  a  capacious 
tunnel  was  to  be  carried  through  the  mountains.  But 
such  changes  had  taken  place  during  the  centuries, —  the 
infiltration  of  water  had  so  altered  the  interior  and  made 
dangerous  the  work, — that  it  seemed  sometimes  well  nigh 
impossible.  Every  foot  of  the  way,  however,  was  care- 
fully engineered  and  completely  finished;  where  the 
tunnel  did  not  pass  through  solid  rock,  smoothly  and 
perfectly  bored,  it  was  made  to  pass  through  magnificent 
masonry  of  cut  stone. 

During  these  years  the  peasants  were  fond  of 
indulging  in  a  jest  often  repeated — "  Either  Torlonia 
will  drain  the  lake,  or  the  lake  will  drain  Torlonia." 
But  at  last  the  great  work  was  accomplished,  another 
festival  took  place,  another  opening  of  the  flood-gates, 
and  in  August,  1862,  the  lake  was  again  unchained. 
The  result  was  a  complete  success.  A  stream,  perfectly 
controlled,  began  to  flow  forth  into  the  Liris,  and  so  to 
the  Mediterranean,  and  the  apprehensions  of  those 
dwellers  on  the  river  banks  who  had  feared  flood  and 
disaster  from  the  releasing  of  such  a  mighty  body  of 
water  were  set  at  rest. 

Not  quite  so  connectedly  as  this  did  the  sequence 
of  events  pass  through  our  minds  as  we  loitered  upon 
the  roof  that  morning,  but  enthusiasm  waxed  till  we 
were  eager  to  proceed  with  our  explorations.  Arriving 


IN    THE   ABRUZZI  137 

again  at  the  garden  gate  we  mounted  a  humble  little 
vehicle,  and,  armed  with  a  permit  to  see  as  much  of 
the  estate  as  we  would,  drove  off  toward  the  south. 
From  the  piazza  we  passed  to  the  streets  of  the  town 
and  skirted  its  mediaeval  castle,  whose  battlements  no 
longer  rise  to  cover  warriors  prepared  to  defend  it  against 
assailing  enemies ;  the  walls  are  now  pierced  for  modern 
windows  that  let  in  air  and  sunshine,  and  within  goes  on 
the  busy  life  of  the  public  school.  With  a  sigh  over 
the  romantic  past,  dutifully  cut  short  by  a  realization  of 
the  needs  of  the  present,  we  left  it  behind  us  and 
emerged  upon  the  open  country,  flat  and  cultivated.  At 
a  short  distance  from  the  village  we  came  to  a  stone 
pillar,  indicating  the  ancient  margin  of  the  lake  and 
consequently  the  beginning  of  the  estate  saved  from  its 
waters.  There  was  no  break  here, —  no  apparent  differ- 
ence of  level, — and  we  trotted  on.  A  little  further  and 
we  entered  a  gate  and  approached  one  of  a  group  of 
buildings,  a  huge  barn,  substantially  reared,  with  no 
wood  in  its  construction,  solidly  pillared,  apparently 
intended  to  last  for  ages ;  and  within  stood  row  after  row 
of  sleek  white  cattle,  perfectly  housed,  exquisitely  kept, 
each  one  a  picture.  The  pretty,  docile  things  made 
friends  with  us  at  once,  and  their  big,  dark  eyes  and 
intelligent  faces  seemed  to  give  each  a  personality  of  its 
own.  A  long  row  of  two-year-old  heifers  was  especially 
charming.  They  glanced  at  us,  we  thought,  with  a  kind 
of  welcoming  curiosity,  and  allowed  us  to  pet  them  and 
stroke  their  snowy  sides  without  the  least  shyness.  An 
incredible  number  appeared  to  be  sheltered  here,  and  yet 
so  perfect  was  the  cleanliness  everywhere  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  linger  among  them. 

Outside,  in  smaller  buildings,  more  open  to  the 
sun,  were  the  fathers  of  the  herd.  It  seemed  to  us  that 
we  had  never  seen  anything  so  big  before  excepting  an 


I38  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

elephant !  The  attendants  stirred  one  of  them  up,  who 
was  stretched  out  upon  his  clean  straw,  and  with  a 
mighty  heave  he  brought  his  gigantic  bulk  up  to  a 
standing  posture ;  surely  it  must  be  the  most  prodigious 
breed  of  cattle  in  the  world!  The  magnificent  fellow 
gazed  at  us  with  a  fine  scorn,  as  it  seemed  to  us,  though 
not  impatiently,  as  who  should  say,  "Why  is  my  medi- 
tative leisure  thus  disturbed  by  the  pert  curiosity  of  two 
petticoated  beings  of  such  small  consequence?"  We 
felt  impelled  to  treat  him  with  a  more  circumspect 
reserve  than  his  companions,  with  whom  we  had  just 
been  so  familiar,  and  did  not  venture  to  pat  his  vast 
flanks,  though  perhaps  he  might  have  permitted  it. 
There  can  hardly  be  a  prettier  sight  than  the  oxen  of 
this  breed,  as  one  meets  them  drawing  the  loaded  carts 
between  these  mountain  villages.  Fancy  a  load  of  arti- 
chokes of  the  magnitude  of  a  load  of  hay,  the  fresh 
green  contrasting  with  the  snowy  sides  of  the  oxen  and 
the  fringes  of  gay  scarlet  tassels  that  adorn  their 
heads. 

This  was  but  one  stable  of  I  know  not  how  many  de- 
voted to  cattle,  and  those  containing  the  horses  numbered 
many  more.  On  we  drove  through  fenced  fields  till,  in 
the  distance,  we  could  discern  a  tall  figure  rising  upward 
into  the  clear  sunlight  like  a  tower.  It  was  a  colossal 
statue  of  the  Virgin,  of  glistening  white  marble,  standing 
just  above  the  great  lock  where  the  waters  from  the  long 
canal  descend  into  the  tunnel.  Year  after  year  she 
stands  there,  gazing  southward  over  these  stretches  of 
fertile  valley  rescued  from  lake  and  swamp.  From  a 
balustraded  terrace  below  her  pedestal  one  can  look  for 
miles  up  the  unswerving  line  of  the  canal,  bordered  on 
either  side  by  a  wall  of  poplars,  as  it  conveys  the  winter 
rainfall  from  the  centre  of  the  original  lake  into  this 
main  waterway. 


IN   THE   ABRUZZI  139 

A  subdued  roar  seems  to  pervade  the  air  when  one 
has  reached  the  grounds  surrounding  the  lock,  and  it 
grows  louder  as  one  enters  the  small  building  just  behind 
the  terrace.  Without  and  within  it  is  of  stone,  substan- 
tial, plain,  marred  by  no  ugly  makeshifts  nor  tasteless 
attempts  at  decoration.  In  the  vestibule  stands  a  bust  of 
Prince  Torlonia.  We  began  to  descend  the  narrow 
spiral  stairs  that  led  down,  down,  into  bottomless  depths 
as  it  appeared  to  us,  while  the  roar  of  many  waters  grew 
more  and  more  deafening  and  we  felt  as  though  the  sea 
had  closed  over  our  heads.  At  the  foot  we  could 
look  through  a  loophole  and  see  the  foaming,  boiling 
volume  of  water  as  it  found  the  bottom  of  the  tunnel. 
It  was  almost  terrifying;  man  with  his  puny  strength 
seemed  impotent  to  control  and  direct  a  force  so 
mighty. 

It  is  impossible  to  sum  up  in  bare  figures  the  results 
of  this  remarkable  experiment.  For  twenty-two  years, 
while  the  work  went  on,  two  thousand  men  more  or  less 
were  kept  continuously  employed  and  one  of  the  benefits 
of  this  steady  and  well-paid  labor  was  the  reform  of  the 
whole  locality.  When  for  years  the  pest  of  brigandage 
was  ever  present  in  regions  even  less  removed  from  the 
large  cities,  there  was  none  here.  The  men  confidently 
labored  on  even  when  in  troublous  times  they  were  obliged 
to  wait  months  together  for  their  wages  which  could  not 
be  sent  up  from  Rome.  Of  course  there  are  those  who 
mourn  the  disappearance  of  the  lovely  sheet  of  water, 
but  in  what  was  formerly  a  poisonous  miasmatic  territory 
a  healthy,  laborious  agricultural  people  occupy  its  place. 
Thirty-six  thousand  acres  of  ground  are  divided  into  farms, 
each  with  its  comfortable  house  and  convenient  outbuild- 
ings, and  the  tenants  of  Prince  Torlonia  till  the  soil. 
There  are  good  schools  for  the  children  and  there  are 
many  miles  of  excellent  roads. 


140  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

One  may  easily  ask,  "  But  with  the  expenditure  of 
so  much  money,  could  not  a  productive  estate  have  been 
established  elsewhere  with  less  labor?"  There  is  little 
doubt  that  it  could  have  been,  but  we  know  that  Italy  is 
not  a  large,  sparsely  settled  country  with  much  land  still 
unoccupied,  productive  if  inaccessible.  That  a  large  region 
should  be  reclaimed  from  conditions  that  made  life  pre- 
carious and  difficult  and  restored  to  order,  industry  and 
comfort,  is  a  gain  hardly  to  be  measured,  and  possibly  it 
could  never  have  been  accomplished  but  through  the 
willingness,  the  ability  and  the  wealth  of  a  man  ready 
single-handed  to  undertake  it.  One  is  reminded  of  the 
closing  of  Faust,  the  only  satisfying  answer  to  his  ques- 
tionings found  in  practical  work  for  the  help  and  better- 
ment of  humanity ;  a  work  described  as  quite  resembling 
this  of  Prince  Torlonia,  laboring  to  bring  into  being 
against  unfavoring  conditions  of  nature  the  possibility  of 
homes  filled  with  an  intelligent,  industrious,  happy  people. 


ROMAN  EXCURSIONS 

Still  by  cracked  arch  and  broken  shaft  I  trace 
What  here  was  once  a  shrine  and  holy  place 
Of  the  supernal  Beauty." 

— LOWELL.      Si  discendero. 


HE  old  papal  city  of  Anagni  lies 
among  the  mountains  which  sweep 
down  on  either  hand  in  long  curves 
or  more  abrupt  falls  to  the  valley 
which  the  railway  follows  between 
Rome  and  Naples.  The  guide- 
book has  little  to  say  of  it  nor  could 
we  find  any  one  who  was  familiar 
with  it,  but  we  were  determined  to 
pay  it  the  homage  of  a  visit  and  so  left  Rome  early  one 
sunny  morning  for  the  thirty  miles' journey  which  carries 
one  to  the  station.  To  the  station  but  not  to  the  town, 
for  while  Anagni  and  its  opposite  neighbors  sit  aloof  upon 
the  heights,  their  little  stations  lie  some  miles  below 
bordering  the  railway.  On  alighting  from  the  train,  the 
only  travelers  seeking  Anagni,  the  solitary  station  looked 
as  though  even  the  customary  diligence  might  be  absent, 
but  on  passing  through  the  gate  and  round  to  the  back 
of  the  building  we  found  it  standing  there,  together  with 
one  battered  little  carriage.  An  open  vehicle,  no  matter 
how  humble,  has  great  advantages  over  the  best  closed 
diligence  and  our  preference  becoming  apparent,  the 


142  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

diligence  driver  made  the  most  strenuous  efforts  to  gather 
us  in.  The  carriage,  however,  finally  bore  us  off  after 
we  had  made  a  bargain  with  its  vetturino. 

I  may  mention  here  that  it  is  never  best  to  leave 
any  loopholes  in  the  terms  of  such  a  transaction.  Our 
man  was  an  innocent  pastoral-looking  son  of  the  soil, 
with  whom  it  was  not  difficult  to  come  to  an  understand- 
ing, and  yet  at  the  end  of  the  day  he  tried  to  overreach 
us  most  shamelessly.  This  roused  our  indignation  and 
a  long  discussion  followed.  I  reasoned,  he  insisted,  I 
explained  and  reminded,  he  stubbornly  reiterated  his 
unjust  demands.  Patience  at  last  becoming  exhausted, 
I  flatly  refused  to  be  defrauded,  and  left  him  clamoring 
for  more.  Yet  the  moment  that  he  saw  the  matter  was 
quite  concluded,  and  before  we  had  disappeared  round 
the  corner  of  the  station,  he  cheerfully  and  cordially 
shouted  after  us : 

"A  pleasant  journey  to  the  Signore!  Have  the 
goodness  to  employ  me  again  another  time ! " 

We  meanwhile,  hurrying  out  of  sight,  lapsed  into 
helpless  laughter. 

But  to  return  to  our  arrival.  To  wind  through 
dewy  fields  and  inhale  the  perfume  of  clover,  with  which 
the  air  was  loaded,  was  pure  pleasure,  while  wild  flowers 
of  the  gayest  colors  made  a  carpet  all  about  us.  One 
never  quite  gets  over  the  surprise  of  finding  so  many 
things  growing  wild  that  are  cultivated  at  home,  as  for 
instance,  honeysuckle,  pansies,  periwinkles,  yellow  iris, 
scarlet  poppies,  cowslips,  pink  morning-glories,  blue 
corn-flowers,  wallflowers  and  stocks.  Particularly  happy 
and  light-hearted  in  the  midst  of  all  this  fragrance  and 
color,  we  mounted  higher  and  higher,  coming  at  length 
to  the  city  gate  through  which  we  passed  in  an  instant 
from  the  youthful  beauty  of  the  Italian  spring  to  the 
sombre  frowns  of  mediaeval  age.  The  abruptness  of  this 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  143 

transition  is  always  more  or  less  startling.  A  village  in 
another  land  may  melt  imperceptibly  into  the  world  with- 
out, straggling  off  toward  the  open  country  with  scattered 
houses  at  longer  and  longer  intervals.  Not  so  with 
Anagni  and  other  towns  of  its  age.  Without  may  be 
unbroken  fields,  but  once  past  the  massive  gateway,  and 
solid  impervious  walls  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  every- 
where, with  climbing  tortuous  streets  and  dark  arched 
passageways.  These  streets,  where  no  width  is  wasted,  are 
paved  from  wall  to  wall  with  heavy  blocks  of  stone,  no 
distinction  of  sidewalk  being  made,  for  foot-passengers1 
rights  are  always  regarded  as  secondary.  We  went  on  to 
the  Inn  of  the  Cock,  where  we  alighted  to  order  luncheon 
and  deposit  part  of  our  belongings  while  we  went  on  foot 
to  explore.  The  landlady,  a  handsome,  haughty-looking 
dame,  with  long,  heavy  gold  ear-rings,  took  charge  of 
what  we  left  and  consented  to  have  bistecca  and  fried 
artichokes,  with  bread  and  wine,  prepared  for  us  at  the 
hour  of  one. 

Not  far  from  the  door  of  the  inn  as  we  passed  up  the 
street  we  came  upon  a  bit  of  architecture  so  striking  and 
beautiful  that  we  stopped  to  ask  about  it  and  found, 
as  we  hoped,  that  it  had  belonged  to  the  papal  palace. 
Once  the  palace  and  cathedral  with  the  gardens  between 
extended  half  across  the  little  city,  though  to-day  other 
buildings  intervene,  and  before  these  very  walls  was 
enacted  that  sacrilegious  tragedy  that  filled  the  Christian 
world  with  horror  six  hundred  years  ago.  Now  a  pretty 
girl  with  the  snowy  head-dress  of  the  contadina  sat  tran- 
quilly sewing  on  the  threshold  that  must  have  witnessed 
the  beginning  of  the  story  whose  close  is  so  obscured  in 
the  misty  background  of  history  that  no  one  can  read  it 
quite  clearly. 

Dante,  whose  reverence  for  the  church  never  bridled 
his  indignation  at  wickedness  in  her  high  places,  more 


144  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

than  hints  that  Pope  Boniface  VIII,  the  protagonist  of 
this  drama,  might  justly  take  his  place  upside  down  in 
one  of  those  seething  pot-holes  of  hell  which  he  describes, 
in  the  company  of  an  earlier  pope  whom  he  had  already 
planted  there.  At  all  events  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
for  what  occurred  on  that  long  ago  September  morning 
there  had  been  more  or  less  provocation. 

The  Pope  and  the  Cardinals  assembled  in  council 
about  him  were  suddenly  aware  of  the  trampling  of  horses 
and  the  gathering  roar  of  threatening  voices  as  the  terrible 
Colonna,  maddened  by  the  spoliation  and  exile  of  his 
whole  family,  swept  through  the  streets  of  Anagni  sur- 
rounded by  his  followers,  shouting  "  Death  to  the  Pope ! " 
and  roused  the  treacherous  and  rebellious  townspeople  to 
join  them  in  thundering  at  the  palace  gates.  Panic  seized 
all  but  Boniface  himself,  the  wealthy  old  pontiff  who  had 
been  so  proud  and  so  cruel.  What  were  his  feelings  as 
with  a  few  followers  he  barred  the  doors  and  tried  to  tem- 
porize? His  sanctity  was  ignored,  his  authority  derided, 
his  commands  defied.  Moment  by  moment  his  adher- 
ents fell  away  from  him  till  he  was  deserted  even  by  the 
Cardinals  who  had  been  his  closest  friends.  Alone,  then, 
but  unbroken  he  left  the  palace  and  passed  through  his 
gardens  to  the  cathedral.  There  he  took  his  seat  upon 
the  papal  throne,  clothed  in  his  richest  robes  and  with  the 
triple  crown  upon  his  head.  The  merchants  of  Anagni 
had  tremblingly  crowded  in  with  their  precious  wares  for 
sanctuary  in  the  sacred  building  and  the  light  from  its 
windows  now  fell  upon  a  spectacle  awful  in  its  strangeness. 
Heaps  of  costly  fabrics  cumbered  the  pavement  and  among 
them  cowered  quaking  figures  and  pallid  faces,  in  terror 
for  life  and  limb  as  well  as  for  worldly  possessions.  And 
as  the  huddled  groups  shrank  and  trembled  at  each 
renewed  onslaught  of  the  besiegers,  ever  battering  more 
furiously  at  the  doors,  the  stern  figure  of  the  Pope,  fixed 


ANAGNI.     THE  PAPAL  PALACE. 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  145 

and  immovable,  towered  above  them  all,  silently  waiting. 
At  length  the  doors  crashed  in  and  the  assailants  poured 
through  the  opening. 

They  threatened  the  Holy  Father,  they  showered 
insult  upon  him,  they  almost  killed  him,  but  he  would 
make  no  promises.  Then  they  set  him  upon  a  worthless 
horse  with  his  face  to  the  tail  and  so  they  bore  him  to 
prison — the  haughty  prelate  who  had  ridden  crowned 
with  jewels  to  the  most  magnificent  inauguration  ever 
accorded  to  a  pope,  while  kings  held  his  bridle-rein  on 
either  hand  and  the  train  could  hardly  cleave  its  way 
through  the  kneeling  multitudes  of  Rome.  Then  both 
palace  and  cathedral  were  plundered.  No  merchant  who 
had  taken  refuge  there,  it  is  written,  saved  so  much  as  a 
farthing  and  as  for  the  wealth  of  the  palace,  the  incomes 
of  all  the  kings  of  Europe  for  a  year  would  not  cover  the 
riches  carried  away  that  day  by  the  soldiers.  Not  the 
smallest  thing  was  left,  the  bare  walls  alone  remained. 
When  outrage  had  done  its  worst,  a  few  days  later  the 
townsfolk  rose,  drove  out  the  soldiers  and  set  the  Pope 
free  but  he  did  not  survive  it  many  days.  No  one  knows 
whether  in  bitterness  and  mortification  he  put  an  end  to 
his  own  life  or  whether  the  violence,  starvation  and 
exhaustion  of  those  days  were  too  much  for  him  and  he 
died. 

The  cathedral  that  beheld  these  things  yet  stands 
there,  solid  and  imperturbable.  On  the  outside  of  the 
western  wall,  high  up  under  a  marble  canopy,  sits  the 
statue  of  Boniface,  still  smilingly  stretching  forth  his 
hands  in  blessing ! 

We  entered  the  church,  which  has  been  much 
restored,  but  did  not  linger  long.  A  bit  here  and  there  of 
great  age  is  shown  and  there  are  fragments  precious  to 
the  student  of  mosaics.  In  the  crypt,  too,  there  are  some 
curiously  primitive  frescoes,  but  there  was  more  charm 


146  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

out  of  doors.  The  ancient  blackened  buildings  look  as 
though  they  had  never  seen  the  hand  of  the  repairer  in  all 
these  centuries,  and  though  I  grudge  to  confess  it, 
Anagni  is  undeniably  dirty.  Still,  what  of  that !  There 
is  infinite  picturesqueness  everywhere,  there  are  incom- 
parable views  from  all  its  high  terraces,  there  are  seg- 
ments of  its  formidable  old  Roman  walls  supported  by 
prodigious  arches  where  upon  one  side  the  town  stops 
short  and  there  is  a  sudden  steep  plunge  to  its  vegetable 
gardens  below.  A  number  of  officious  little  boys  were 
confident  that  we  needed  their  help  to  see  these  remains 
and  hopped  cheerfully  about  us,  stopping  to  play  when 
we  paused  and  renewing  their  offers  of  assistance  when- 
ever we  resumed  our  stroll.  There  were  also  the  most 
picturesque  old  women,  seated  outside  their  doors  spin- 
ning while  they  minded  their  grandchildren,  whose 
mothers  were  away  at  work.  Two  of  them  in  particular 
proved  irresistible  to  our  photographer,  so  we  began  a 
conversation  with  them  and  explained  the  wishes  of  the 
Signorina. 

"  Oh,  but  we  are  too  old ! "  they  cried.  "  The  Signo- 
rina surely  cannot  wish  to  make  a  picture  of  us.  We  are 
ugly,  and  then  we  have  no  fine  clothes ! " 

We  assured  them  to  the  contrary  and  in  gratified 
embarrassment  they  consented  to  be  posed,  while  the 
flock  of  babies  hovered  just  out  of  range  of  the  camera, 
and  one  whom  I  approached  too  nearly  at  the  close  of 
operations  burst  into  such  prolonged  screams  of  affright 
as  to  show  that  a  tourist  took  on  the  appearance  of  a 
terrifying  monster  in  its  unaccustomed  eyes.  In  general, 
however,  we  found  the  dwellers  in  Anagni  not  ill-disposed 
toward  us  and  once  when  in  the  main  thoroughfare,  which 
was  yet  a  narrow  and  uncrowded  street  enough,  we  found 
ourselves  somewhat  pressed  upon  by  a  too  numerous 
following  of  children,  only  a  word  was  necessary  to  be 


ANAGNI.      A  STREET. 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  147 

relieved.     A  passing   remark   to  a  man   standing   in  a 
doorway  sufficed. 

"We  appear  to  be  heading  a  procession  in  your 
town,  and  we  are  a  little  incommoded/'  said  I,  and  the 
children  must  have  been  quietly  but  firmly  dealt  with  at 
once,  for,  to  our  surprise,  the  little  mob  melted  away 
directly.  And  if  it  re-formed  more  than  once  in  smaller 
numbers  later,  why,  we  had  grown  accustomed  to 
our  own  attractiveness  and  perhaps  should  have  missed 
the  homage  of  this  form  of  attention  had  it  entirely 
ceased.  At  all  events,  we  quitted  Anagni  as  evening 
came  on  with  only  friendly  feeling  for  its  inhabitants  and 
with  regretful  admiration  for  all  the  beauty  we  were  leav- 
ing behind. 

BRACCIANO. 

cc  Do  not  fail  to  see  some  of  the  finest  of  the 
Roman  castles,"  said  a  Florentine  friend  to  us,  and 
remembering  this  charge  we  early  chose  Bracciano  for  an 
excursion  from  Rome.  To  enter  the  castle  a  permit  is 
necessary,  which  is  to  be  procured  at  the  palace  of 
Prince  Odescalchi,  the  present  owner,  and  on  alighting 
at  the  portal  to  apply  for  it  we  were  met  by  an  angel 
with  a  flaming  sword,  or  at  least  a  being  nearly  as  over- 
awing. He  had  evidently  been  chosen  for  his  height, 
his  magnificent  proportions  and  his  bland  manner.  He 
wore  a  long  coat  or  robe,  nearly  sweeping  the  ground,  a 
cocked  hat  adorned  with  silver  lace,  and  bore  in  his  hand 
a  staff  or  wand  some  six  feet  in  length,  also  ornamented 
and  bound  about  with  silver.  It  was  his  business  merely 
to  wave  the  inquiring  traveler  to  the  secretary's  office  open- 
ing upon  the  court,  and  to  offer  such  an  official  anything 
short  of  a  purse  of  gold  or  a  jewel  of  price  as  buonamano 
made  us  tremble  lest  we  should  be  convicted  of  ignorance 
or  insult.  This  fear,  however,  was  groundless,  for  the 


I48 


WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 


elegant  impersonality  of  his  demeanor  as  he  accepted 
a  coin  of  moderate  value  reached  the  standard  of  his 
other  perfections. 

By  train  it  is  but  twenty-four  miles  to  Bracciano, 
and  once  there  we  found  our  way  to  the  Trattoria 
Sabatio,  a  comfortable  and  well-appointed  restaurant, 
where  we  lunched  upon  the  veranda,  having  the  castle 
in  full  view  only  a  short  distance  away.  The  huge  pile 
built  by  the  Orsini  in  the  fifteenth 
century  dominates  the  village  with 
a  masterful  air,  admirably  in  keep- 
ing with  its  character  of  mighty 
mediaeval  stronghold.  Its  great 
height  and  extent,  its  towers  and 
bastions  in  perfect  preservation  and 
the  beauty  of  its  commanding 
situation  make  it  a  fine  example 
of  its  class.  Contemplating  it, 
vague  memories  and  curious  con- 
jectures flit  through  the  mind.  The 
Orsini — potent  and  wonderful  race 
—  their  power  so  commanding,  even  centuries  before  the 
building  of  this  castle,  that  they  were  said  to  own  four 
hundred  black  towers  in  the  city  of  Rome,  their  bloody 
struggles  with  the  great  rival  family  of  Colonna,  their 
annals  thrilling  with  romance,  stained  with  crime  —  how 
one  longs  to  penetrate  the  obscurity  of  the  past  and 
become  possessed  of  the  details  of  those  broken,  tantaliz- 
ing records ! 

At  present  the  interior  of  the  edifice  is  in  process 
of  restoration.  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  should  choose 
to  restore,  were  I  to  come  into  possession  of  a  storied 
castle.  An  arrested  decay,  a  preservation  of  the  remains 
without  adding  or  subtracting,  would  have  its  attraction; 
but  at  Bracciano  it  appears  at  least  to  be  carried  on  with 


ORSINI  ARMS. 


ROMAN   EXCURSIONS  149 

care  and  reverence,  and  it  is  interesting  to  see  that  where 
a  bit  of  decoration  on  wall  or  ceiling  has  escaped  the 
destructive  influence  of  time  and  chance,  it  is  scrupu- 
lously copied  and  developed  in  the  present  design.  In 
work  of  this  kind  there  are  discoveries  to  be  made,  too, 
and  here,  in  the  removal  of  part  of  a  wall,  an  interesting 
fresco  has  been  brought  to  light  fresh  and  uninjured. 
It  covers  a  large  space  under  an  arch  leading  into  the 
fine  court  and  is  now  protected  by  glass,  that  the  open 
air  may  not  impair  its  color.  We  walked  through  the 
rooms  shown  to  us,  looking  at  the  books  and  pictures 
they  contained,  but  especially  at  a  marble  bust  standing 
in  the  full  light  of  a  window  which  overlooked  the  pretty 
lake  below  the  castle  walls.  It  represented  a  woman  of 
.full,  ripe  beauty,  no  less  a  personage  than  that  unhappy 
Isabella  Orsini,  done  to  death  by  her  husband  in  a  burst 
of  righteous  indignation  over  those  frailties  which  first 
became  unendurable  to  him  when  he  had  fallen  under 
the  spell  of  a  more  youthful  beauty. 

Those  were  the  days  when  the  patriarchal  system, 
with  its  affectionate  family  councils,  settled  questions  which 
a  cold  and  unsympathetic  judiciary  now  deals  with,  and  if 
it  became  necessary  to  proceed  to  the  cutting  off  of  life 
itself,  it  might  be  gently  but  firmly  accomplished  without 
evoking  impertinent  comment  or  the  embarrassment  of 
prying  investigation.  One  sentence  in  particular  at  the 
close  of  the  discussion  which  decided  the  end  of  poor 
Isabella's  story  has  come  down  to  us.  Her  husband 
and  her  brother,  in  the  interest  of  family  dignity  and 
the  furtherance  of  the  proprieties  in  general,  reluctantly 
decided  that  she  had  better  be  removed,  and  as  they 
separated  at  the  end  of  the  interview  it  was  the  brother 
who,  with  a  pressure  of  Duke  Paolo's  hand,  observed 
tenderly : 

a  Remember  to  be  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman." 


150  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

The  apparent  ambiguity  of  this  exhortation  was  not 
misunderstood  by  his  listener,  though  it  does  not  appear 
that  the  Duke  was  in  special  need  of  warning  lest  a 
spirit  of  fond  indulgence  should  interfere  with  the  claims 
of  justice.  From  this  very  castle  he  took  her  when  he 
had  arranged  the  details  of  the  affair,  which  he  carried 
out  with  the  considerateness  demanded  by  a  matter  so 
purely  private  and  personal. 

Perhaps  from  the  same  window  which  now  lights 
the  untroubled  marble  countenance  of  her  bust,  she 
paused  to  .gaze  for  a  moment  the  day  she  departed, 
and  the  surface  of  the  lake  lay  as  blue  and  sparkling  as 
to-day,  the  hills  with  their  groups  of  trees  as  green  and 
tranquil,  the  sedges  at  the  water's  edge  as  fresh  and 
waving.  Did  any  creeping  terror  invade  her,  or  had  she 
not  yet  divined  the  purpose  of  her  journey?  And  is  it 
true  that  Duke  Paolo  disguised  his  intent  till  the  very 
moment  that  with  his  own  hand  he  strangled  her  in  the 
dark  chamber  whither  he  had  led  her?  No  one  can  be 
sure  now,  but  at  least  he  gave  her  a  costly  and  magnifi- 
cent funeral  and  followed  her  to  the  grave  as  chief 
mourner,  while  her  brother,  not  to  be  outdone  in  mag- 
nanimity, paid  all  her  debts,  which  amounted  to  no 
small  sum,  and  was  at  some  expense  besides  in  favors  to 
members  of  her  family.  It  is  impossible  to  guess  how 
many  other  bloody  tragedies  have  had  their  climax 
within  these  walls,  but  it  is  easy  to  imagine  any  horror, 
for  what  moral  perversion  may  not  be  looked  for  in  the 
possibilities  of  such  a  heredity  ?  These  fiery  natures> 
unencumbered  by  scruples,  hesitated  at  little  in  the 
accomplishment  of  their  purposes.  Perhaps,  however, 
the  spectral  shapes  that  must  have  paced  these  galleries 
at  night  will  shrink  away  before  the  stone-mason  and  the 
frescoer  and  Bracciano  be  no  longer  revisited  by  the 
shades  that  must  have  haunted  it  till  now. 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  151 

When  the  shadows  begin  to  lengthen,  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  drive  on  the  banks  of  the  lake,  at  least  as  far 
as  the  little  town  of  Trevignano  which,  half  way  round 
the  nearly  circular  basin,  looks  across  the  water  toward 
Bracciano.  Its  houses  are  grouped  about  and  upon 
a  small  rounded  hill  that  rises  close  to  the  water's 
edge  and  mounts  so  symmetrically  to  support  the 
ruined  castle  on  its  summit,  that  one  is  half  inclined 
to  suspect  the  Orsini  of  having  planned  and  constructed 
it  simply  to  act  as  an  attractive  point  in  the  view 
from  their  windows.  Whether  it  be  so  or  not,  it  is  as 
well  not  to  examine  the  little  place  too  much  in  detail, 
for  though  fair  to  outward  view  it  is  singularly  unclean 
within.  The  inhabitants,  however,  are  busily  engaged 
in  weaving  linen,  which  when  produced  is  as  fair  and 
'unsullied  as  though  it  had  not  been  brought  forth  in  the 
grime  and  dirt  of  Trevignano.  Webs  of  it  are  spread 
upon  the  beach  where,  stretched  tightly  and  fastened  to 
the  ground,  it  lies  bleaching  and  forms  dazzling  parallel- 
ograms of  whiteness  which  can  be  seen  from  a  long 
distance,  and  as  an  unusual  feature  of  scenery  puzzle  the 
unaccustomed  eye. 

At  twilight  as  we  stood  upon  the  platform  of  the 
railway  station,  ready  to  return  to  Rome,  we  noticed  that 
we  were  to  have  the  company  of  a  newly  married  pair, 
who  were  perhaps  about  to  make  their  first  adventurous 
journey  into  the  wide  world  beyond  Bracciano.  The 
little  bride  had  added  a  pair  of  pearl-colored  gloves  to 
her  rustic  finery.  Her  eyelashes  lifted  themselves  only 
momentarily  from  her  blushing  cheeks  as  her  husband, 
fairly  radiating  pride  and  delight  in  his  recently  acquired 
honors,  invited  the  chaffing  congratulations  of  his  friends 
and  gloried  in  the  importance  of  the  occasion.  Her 
happy  embarrassment  added  piquancy  to  the  usual  inter- 
change of  pleasantries,  whose  character  showed  that  the 


152  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

wit  of  bridal  parties  does  not  differ  greatly  in  whatever 
language  it  may  be  exercised. 

VITERBO. 

Viterbo  is  within  easy  reach  of  Rome,  and  it  will 
well  repay  any  one  who  can  spare  the  time  to  spend  a 
day  or  two  there.  It  is  curious  and  individual  even  in  a 
country  of  such  infinite  variety  as  Italy,  where  every 
place  has  its  own  separate  and  peculiar  charm,  and  it 
has  many  claims  to  interest.  For  instance,  it  lies  at  the 
heart  of  the  "patrimony  of  St.  Peter,"  that  rich  grant 
made  by  the  great  Countess  Matilda  to  the  papacy  in 
the  twelfth  century,  and  its  situation,  about  twelve  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea,  in  a  rolling  country  of  low  hills 
and  shallow  valleys,  is  exceedingly  pleasing.  It  is  full 
of  picturesque  bits  and  delightful  architectural  details, 
while  the  drives  in  the  neighborhood  lead  by  quiet  roads 
to  interesting  points  beyond. 

Italian  authors  of  old  time  call  it  "the  city  of 
beautiful  fountains  and  handsome  women."  Nothing 
that  we  saw  would  have  suggested  to  us  that  the  standard 
of  good  looks  was  higher  there  than  in  neighboring 
places,  but  it  may  have  been  merely  that  the  beauties  of 
Viterbo  did  not  happen  to  walk  abroad  during  our  short 
stay ;  however,  neither  did  anything  occur  to  illustrate 
another  characteristic  maintained  of  Viterbo  —  that  it  has 
an  unusually  wicked  population.  Noisy  they  did  indeed 
appear  to  be  and  voluble  to  a  degree,  but  no  indecorum 
or  violence  made  itself  noticeable  while  we  were  its 
guests.  Our  windows  overlooked  the  irregular  main 
piazza  of  the  town  and  from  it  an  ever- ascending  volume 
of  sound  rose  to  us.  At  first  we  rested  ourselves  from 
the  journey  and  gazed  down,  but  presently  we  descended 
and  took  haphazard  ventures  into  the  nearer  streets. 


BRACCIANO.      THE  CASTLE. 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  153 

It  seemed  a  busy  place,  with  much  coming  and 
going,  and  quite  an  array  of  shops  for  the  sale  of  different 
wares,  and  if  one  were  unreasonable  enough  to  carp  at 
anything  in  Italy  it  might  be  at  the  contents  of  such 
shops.  For  instance,  after  feasting  your  eyes  upon  the 
upper  portion  of  the  exterior  of  some  quaint  building 
you  become  aware  of  windows  upon  the  street  belonging 
to  a  botega^  and  still  with  a  preoccupied  mind  vaguely 
imagining  the  sort  of  implements  and  utensils  which 
would  be  the  harmonious  furnishing  of  such  an  ancient 
habitation,  you  glance  at  the  array  in  the  little  show  win- 
dow. Alas,  for  romance !  Just  such  meretricious  and 
tasteless  frippery,  just  such  cheap  and  commonplace  tin- 
ware and  crockery  meet  the  eye  as  fill  the  shelves  of  "  the 
store "  in  an  American  country  town.  Perhaps  this 
•homogeneity  is  a  part  of  progress,  perhaps  households 
which  had  to  limit  themselves  to  a  few  beautiful  hand- 
wrought  copper  vessels  now  luxuriate  in  the  convenience 
of  unlimited  tin  buckets ;  but  surely  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  substitution  of  bad  imitations  of  our  modern 
fashions  for  the  suitable  and  beautiful  national  costumes 
once  worn  is  a  misfortune  to  wearers  and  beholders  alike. 

In  Italian  towns  of  any  size  one  familiar  American 
object,  one  revered  name,  is  ever  present,  the  Singer 
Sewing  Machine.  How  it  is  that  this  make  occupies 
the  field  alone  I  cannot  explain,  but  so  it  appears  to  be,  and 
what  is  still  more  singular  it  can  be  had  much  more 
cheaply  than  in  the  United  States.  In  Viterbo  the 
agency  was  combined  with  the  sale  of  photographs  of 
local  scenery,  and  as  we  chose  a  few  of  these  I  remarked 
to  the  woman  in  attendance : 

"I  suppose  this  machine  is  much  prized  in  Italy. 
What  is  it  called?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  readily,  "  truly  most  useful, 
Signora;  it  is  a  Seenjery  !  " 


154  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

From  the  centre  of  business  it  is  easy  to  pass  to 
some  silent  little  piazza,  where  the  sun  and  shade 
distribute  themselves  tranquilly  upon  weather-stained 
surfaces  of  gray  stone,  where  close  clinging  lichens 
add  soft  new  tones  to  their  coloring,  and  in  whose 
crevices  tender  sprouting  plants  have  found  a  foothold. 
Perhaps  at  the  jutting  angle  of  a  building  a  column 
rears  itself  supporting  the  sculptured  arms  of  the  city, 
or  a  fearful  stone  monster  looks  down,  shorn  of  much 
of  its  first  fierceness  by  the  smoothing  hand  of  time.  A 
pot  of  clove-pinks  rests  upon  a  high  window-ledge,  or 
a  canary  pipes  from  its  cage  with  no  loss  of  cheerful- 
ness for  the  lack  of  listeners. 

The  churches  are  many  and  interesting,  and  we 
noticed  jutting  from  the  facade  of  little  Saint  Angelo  a 
curiously  carved  sarcophagus  and  learned  on  inquiry  that 
within  it  undoubtedly  rests  the  dust  of  the  beautiful 
Galiana  of  the  Baracozzi,  that  cherished  heroine  of 
Viterbo,  about  whom  the  romance  of  the  city  gathers. 
The  chroniclers  of  the  twelfth  century  are  agreed  that 
Viterbo  was  favored  beyond  the  ordinary.  They  record 
its  possession  of  treasures  as  choice  and  diverse,  as,  for 
example,  a  portable  altar  which  carried  victory  with  it 
wherever  it  might  be  transferred  and  set  up;  a  jester  of 
irresistible  wit  and  diabolical  invention ;  a  lady  half  of 
whose  hair  was  red  and  half  green ;  but  especially  do 
they  dwell  upon  the  matchless  beauty  of  the  fair  Galiana. 
They  are  eloquent  over  the  variety  of  her  charms,  of 
which  perhaps  the  most  unusual  was  the  possession  of  a 
complexion  of  such  wondrous  purity  that  when  she 
drank  red  wine  its  passage  down  her  slender  throat 
showed  rosy  through  the  transparent  skin.  Her  story  is 
related  something  as  follows :  The  founders  of  Viterbo, 
having  been  Trojans,  the  city  still  reverently  supported 
in  honor  of  its  origin  a  white  sow,  and  this  beast,  grown 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  155 

to  a  fearful  size  and  arrogance,  had  sacrificed  to  its 
dreadful  appetite  every  year  on  Easter  Sunday  a  virgin 
drawn  by  lot  from  the  fairest  the  city  contained. 

When  the  young  and  lovely  Galiana  had  reached 
what  seemed  the  culminating  point  of  her  bloom  the 
dreaded  lot  fell  upon  her.  At  this  all  the  population 
fell  to  lamenting  grievously.  It  was  too  dreadful  that 
beauty  so  dazzling  must  be  given  over  to  serve  as  a 
repast  for  the  odious  monster.  However,  there  was  no 
escape,  and  amid  sighs  and  groans  she  was  conveyed  to 
the  banks  of  the  river  Paradosso,  where  the  sacrifices 
were  wont  to  take  place.  But  at  the  very  moment  the 
voracious  sow  approached  to  devour  her  prey,  out  from  the 
forest  close  by  bounded  a  lion  which  forthwith  fell  upon 
the  sow,  killed  it  and  dragged  its  body  away,  thus  liber- 
ating the  virgin  from  death  and  the  people  from  their 
bloody  annual  tribute.  Great  was  the  relief,  tumultuous 
the  joy  of  all  Viterbo,  and  Galiana  was  borne  back  in 
triumph  to  her  home. 

From  this  time  forth  she  waxed,  if  possible,  more 
beautiful  than  ever,  and  her  fame  reached  so  far  that 
travelers  came  from  the  remotest  countries  to  gaze  upon 
her.  On  her  account  a  war  was  even  kindled  with  Rome, 
in  which  the  prowess  of  Viterbo  at  last  won  the  victory; 
and  indeed  toward  the  close  of  the  narrative  details 
multiply  themselves  in  such  a  way  as  to  become  confus- 
ing, for  while  one  version  tamely  chronicles  that  Galiana 
died  quietly  in  her  bed,  another  has  it  that  a  Roman  baron, 
having  sued  for  her  hand  in  marriage  and  been  refused, 
decided  to  have  her  by  force.  With  a  numerous  army 
he  besieged  Viterbo  and  succeeded  in  surrounding  the 
tower  of  the  Baracozzi.  When  it  became  impossible  for 
the  father  longer  to  hold  out,  sooner  than  allow  his 
daughter  to  fall  a  prey  to  the  enemy,  he  killed  her  and 
cast  her  body  forth  to  them  from  a  circular  window  which 


156  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

is  still  to  be  seen  in  the  tower.  Another  account  asserts 
that  the  baron,  finding  it  impossible  to  take  the  tower  by 
storm,  begged  that  at  least  before  departing  he  might  be 
granted  a  sight  of  her,  the  which  being  considered  an 
allowable  indulgence,  she  was  shown  him  from  this  same 
round  window.  At  this,  filled  with  fury  and  despair  at 
the  sight  of  such  unattainable  loveliness,  he  suddenly 
took  aim  at  her  with  his  bow  and  pierced  her  to  the 
heart. 

Profound  were  the  horror  and  grief  of  the  people, 
and  the  mortal  remains  of  this  firebrand  of  beauty  having 
been  duly  exposed  in  public  for  a  last  look  at  the  per- 
fection that  had  cost  so  dear,  were  interred  in  a  sarcopha- 
gus upon  which  was  sculptured  the  story  of  the  lion  and 
the  sow.  This  was  then  fastened  aloft  upon  the  facade  of 
the  church  of  Saint  Angelo,  where  it  may  still  be  seen. 
If  cavillers  object  that  the  coffin  is  Etruscan  and  that  the 
tower  of  the  Baracozzi  was  not  built  till  the  fourteenth 
century,  let  us  regard  them  with  indulgent  pity ;  there 
will  ever  be  frigid,  inelastic  minds  ready  to  brush  aside 
the  most  enchanting  romance  if  it  clashes  with  a  bald, 
unsympathetic  fact. 

Etruscan  remains  of  great  interest  and  importance 
abound  in  this  region,  which  lies  well  within  the  borders 
of  that  ancient  people,  and  even  to  one  who  does  not  take 
fire  easily  at  the  mention  of  Etruscan  tombs  the  after- 
noon's drive  to  Castel  d'  Asso  may  well  prove  a  satisfying 
and  delightful  experience.  In  the  first  place  the  Roman 
roads  that  seam  the  ground  immediately  beyond  Viterbo 
upon  the  west  are  more  curious  and  wonderful  than  any 
others  that  I  know  of.  Imagine  a  tunnel  cut  in  a  closely 
packed  gravelly  soil  of  rich  color,  with  the  roof  left  off. 
Let  centuries  make  the  sides  somewhat  irregular  without 
lowering  them,  cover  the  upper  edges  with  every  variety 
of  shrub  and  tree,  of  drooping,  trailing,  waving  greenery, 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  157 

tossing  down  long  arms  toward  you  as  you  drive  along 
below,  and  you  may  have  some  idea  of  these  shady  and 
delectable  highways.  They  have  the  effect  of  having 
perhaps  begun  upon  the  surface  and  then  worn  their  way 
fifteen  or  twenty  feet  into  the  soil.  Through  them  we 
passed  for  some  miles  and  then  emerged  gradually  upon 
informal  tracks  among  ploughed  fields  and  grassy 
meadows. 

We  were  made  aware  of  having  reached  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  famous  Etruscan  burying-place,  when  the 
road  came  to  an  end  suddenly  in  the  yard  of  a  farm- 
house, where  our  driver  explained  to  us  a  guide  would 
soon  be  forthcoming.  He  emerged  presently  from  a 
field  near  by,  for  conducting  strangers  to  the  tombs  of 
Castel  d'Asso  is  probably  an  incidental  occupation  to  the 
more  regular  one  of  cultivating  the  soil.  We  followed 
him  on  foot,  and  nothing  can  be  less  suggestive  of  funereal 
solemnity  than  the  little  path  that  meanders  along  at  first 
nearly  upon  a  level  and  then  suddenly  drops  over  the 
brink  of  something  between  a  narrow  valley  and  a  wide 
ravine,  at  the  bottom  of  which  runs  a  brook.  Confronting 
us  as  we  began  to  descend  was  the  ruined  castle  which 
gives  its  name  to  the  locality,  retaining  something  of  its 
old  outline  but  abandoned  long  since  to  solitude  and 
decay.  Whether  one  follows  a  guide  or  picks  one's  own 
way  among  the  shrubby,  flowering  verdure  of  the  descent 
seems  to  make  little  difference,  and  at  the  bottom  the 
most  insecure  and  slippery  of  little  bridges  offers  a  passage 
across  the  brook.  With  the  help  of  the  guide's  hand 
and  a  cautious  avoidance  of  bog  on  the  opposite  bank  we 
sprang  over  and  a  little  later  suddenly  came  upon  the 
first  evidences  of  the  tombs. 

Forming  the  upper  part  of  the  valley's  wall  on  this 
side  are  spaces  of  perpendicular  rock  and  horizontally 
along  the  surface  run  lines  of  carving.  The  simple 


158  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

severity  of  these  mouldings  cut  into  the  face  of  the  living 
rock  has  an  impressiveness  denied  to  any  artificially 
erected  monument.  Below  panels  are  indicated,  in  shape 
pyramidal,  almost  suggesting  Egyptian  forms,  and  one 
may  trace  mysterious  Etruscan  characters  not  yet  oblit- 
erated. 

Solemn,  immovable  they  stand,  emerging  from  the 
loving  embrace  of  ever  renewed,  tender  green  leaves  and 
seeming  to  gaze  impassively  forward,  brooding  over  an 
immemorial  past. 

Below,  here  and  there  are  unimportant-looking  holes 
in  the  ground,  choked  with  earth  and  bushes  and  appear- 
ing hardly  more  than  the  burrows  of  some  animal.  One 
might  descend  into  them  with  difficulty,  but  our  attend- 
ant promised  little  now  to  reward  such  an  attempt.  Ages 
ago  they  were  plundered  of  their  bronze  tripods,  their 
painted  vases,  their  scarabs  and  golden  ornaments.  So 
without  reluctance  we  contented  ourselves  with  the  exte- 
rior, remembering  the  Chevalier  of  Pensieri-Vani,  whose 
conscience  never  quite  ceased  to  reproach  him  for  having 
broken  in  upon  the  long  sleep  of  a  Lucumo  and  disclosed 
to  the  eyes  of  vulgar  curiosity  the  sacredness  of  his 
seclusion. 

Turning  out  of  Viterbo  in  the  opposite  direction 
from  Castel  d'Asso,  one  may  go  to  the  Villa  Lante,  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  and  characteristic  in  Italy,  a  real 
creation  such  as  taste  and  wealth  have  known  how  to 
evoke  without  the  aid  of  great  natural  advantage  of  site 
or  surroundings.  It  is  a  thing  to  make  one  long  to 
know  of  its  beginning  and  whether  it  was  conceived  and 
carried  out  by  one  person  or  discussed  and  planned  by 
several.  At  all  events  there  is  complete  unity  of  purpose 
evident  in  it  as  a  whole,  to  which  its  details  are  finely  subor- 
dinated. It  is  not  a  long  drive  to  the  little  village  of 
Bagnaia,  and  as  you  enter  its  open  sunny  piazza  the 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  159 

warlike  towers  of  the  fortress  on  one  side  overlook  the 
slope  of  the  villla  gardens  not  far  away  on  the  other. 

The  property  was  once  the  seat  of  the  bishops  of 
Viterbo  but  now  belongs  to  the  Duca  di  Lante,  who  it  is 
to  be  hoped  holds  it  the  fairest  jewel  in  the  ducal  coronet. 
The  gardens  at  first  level  later  mount  a  gentle  incline, 
the  entrance  being  at  the  lowest  point,  and  as  you  enter 
the  gate  in  the  enclosing  stone  wall  you  may  take  in  the 
design  at  a  glance.  First,  the  formal  garden,  perhaps 
three  hundred  feet  square,  with  a  superb  fountain  as  its 
central  point,  and  beyond  four  rises  of  terrace.  At  the  first, 
opposite  the  entrance  and  against  the  outer  edges  of  the 
formal  garden,  stand  two  square  stone  pavilions,  the 
summer  residence,  while  between  them  the  ground  begins 
to  mount  to  the  upper  terraces ;  beyond  all  is  a  back- 
'ground  of  woods. 

The  fountain,  fine  in  design,  with  its  bronze  figures, 
stone  balustrades  and  copings,  and  great  terra-cotta  jars 
of  growing  plants,  sends  its  waters  into  four  connecting 
basins,  the  whole  occupying  a  space  something  like  a  hun- 
dred feet  square.  Around  it  the  garden  beds,  not  over- 
loaded with  flowers,  all  the  plants  kept  to  a  certain 
measure  of  height,  group  themselves  in  geometrical 
designs,  and  the  boundaries  are  marked  by  flourishing 
box  hedges  of  dense  growth.  The  upper  terraces  are 
a  series  of  lesser  fountains,  waterways,  flights  of  steps 
and  balustrades  with  such  a  disposition  of  hedges,  shrubs 
and  trees  as  leaves  the  vista  open  to  the  eye  and  yet  gives 
shade  and  the  shelter  of  arching  boughs.  Now  and  then 
a  stone  pine  sends  its  slender  column  aloft  topped  by  the 
sudden  spread  of  its  crown  of  branches,  beautiful  accent 
in  a  beautiful  scheme. 

As  one  follows  up  the  terraces  by  flights  of  steps, 
receding  from  and  returning  to  the  central  attraction  of 
the  water's  course,  each  step  is  a  discovery.  The  stone 


160  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

used  everywhere  is  porous,  almost  coral-like,  and  time 
and  the  lapping  tongues  of  water  have  moulded  and  worn 
it  into  fantastic  irregularities,  while  all  the  delicate  vege- 
tation that  seeks  a  foothold  in  such  places  finds  ample 
hospitality  in  its  crannies  and  crevices.  Old  Neptune 
reclining  in  one  of  the  smaller  basins  wears  a  most 
decent  covering  of  shining  green  moss  and  water 
weeds  that  wave  in  long  fringes  from  his  half-disguised 
limbs. 

The  third  and  fourth  terraces  begin  to  penetrate 
into  the  woods,  and  the  shade  of  noble  trees  falls  upon 
spaces  of  greensward  beyond.  Down  the  middle  of  the 
slight  incline  in  the  former  of  the  two  runs  a  waterway 
unique  in  its  fashioning,  a  narrow  channel  hollowed  out 
in  stone,  with  the  edges  waving  and  curling  into  shell-like 
spirals,  thus  giving  the  water  a  thousand  rippling,  swirling 
motions  in  its  downward  course.  Higher  hedges  close 
this  in,  leaving  a  broad  graveled  way  on  either  side,  and 
stone  benches  at  intervals  must  invite  to  pleasant  musings 
on  hot  summer  afternoons,  with  half  articulate  murmurs 
of  coolness  as  their  accompaniment. 

After  this  the  woods  stretch  away  and  you  follow 
delicious  shady  paths  thinking  of  the  happy  chance  that 
this  bit  of  forest  afforded  in  planning  the  domain.  But 
if  by  accident  you  approach  a  lateral  boundary  you  sud- 
denly find  yourself  looking  out  over  the  open  grassy 
country  again  and  realize  that  the  hand  of  man  first 
planted  -what  nature  seems  now  to  have  taken  so  com- 
pletely to  herself.  Once  we  came  upon  a  little  Madonna 
inserted  in  the  hollow  of  a  tree-trunk.  A  flower  cup 
hung  suspended  before  her  and  it  was  not  empty ;  we 
could  not  help  smiling  at  her  fondly  as  we  rested  upon  a 
seat  opposite  and  gave  way  to  the  speculations  she  and 
many  other  things  evoked.  Perhaps  we  were  tempted 
to  some  expression  in  the  presence  of  the  little  figure. 


MONTE  CASSINO.     THE  COURT. 


^SELIBR^ 
.   "     OF  THE     *r 

UNIV 


ROMAN    EXCURSIONS  161 

I  am  sure  a  votive  offering  of  thanks  would  have  been 
consistent  with  our  mood,  and  as  we  returned  to  Viterbo 
in  the  face  of  a  saffron  sunset,  we  decided  that  the 
Madonna  of  the  Ilex  should  in  future  be  ours. 


MONTE   CASSINO   AND    RAVELLO. 

"  Beautiful  valley!  through  whose  verdant  meads 
Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along;  — 
The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds, 
The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

"  The  Land  of  Labor  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 
The  hillsides,  and  where  every  mountain's  crest 
Is  an  Etrurian  or  a  Roman  wall." 

—  LONGFELLOW.     Monte  Cauino. 

[OMPARATIVELY  few  people  hur- 
rying north  from  Naples  turn  aside 
before  reaching  Rome  to  visit  the 
town  of  Cassino  and  the  monastery 
that  lies  above  it,  and  yet  it  is  well 
worth  a  stay  of  a  day  or  two,  espe- 
cially if  one  has  the  good  fortune  to 
happen  upon  a  market-day,  when 
the  country  people  from  all  the 
valley  of  the  Garigliano  gather  into  the  town  and  col- 
lect upon  its  wide  market-place. 

In  Italy  it  is  only  necessary  to  arrive  in  a  place 
which  one  has  vaguely  thought  of  as  quite  obscure  to 
be  at  once  convicted  of  disgraceful  ignorance.  Monte 
Cassino  was  to  me  hardly  more  than  a  geographical  ex- 
pression, and  yet  I  find  that  its  past  resounds  with  great 
names  and  mighty  deeds,  and  that  its  history  combines 

162 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       163 

all  the  needful  elements  for  the  weaving  of  a  thrill- 
ing historical  romance.  Saintly  miracles,  courts  and  kings, 
wars  and  rumors  of  wars,  earthquakes  and  conflagrations, 
all  have  visited  this  sacred  retreat,  and  it  has  survived 
them  all.  Popes  and  emperors  have  held  court  here, 
weighty  theological  questions  have  been  settled,  and  the 
famous  interview  between  Gregory  XI  and  the  great 
Frederick  II  took  place  on  this  spot. 

It  was  already  some  hundreds  of  years  old  and  the 
summer  residence  of  many  a  wealthy  Roman  family, 
when  Pliny  wrote  of  its  fine  amphitheatre,  built  at  the 
sole  expense  of  a  Roman  lady,  Ummidia  Quadratilla, 
the  roll  of  whose  impressive  name  harmonizes  with  its 
still  imposing  ruins.  Her  wealth  may  be  imagined,  and 
it  is  said  that  her  interest  in  the  drama  never  flagged 
though  she  lived  to  an  advanced  age. 

It  was  here  also  that,  in  a  domain  of  such  extent 
and  splendor  as  to  be  called  the  Home  of  the  Muses, 
Mark  Antony  carried  on  the  shameless  orgies  which  were 
the  theme  of  Cicero's  reproaches,  so  that  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  Casinum,  as  it  was  then  called,  may  awaken  august 
and  classic  memories.  But  the  magnificence  of  Casinum 
and  almost  its  existence  were  blotted  out  by  the  barba- 
rians who  ravaged  Italy,  and  for  nearly  a  hundred  years 
the  few  inhabitants  who  survived  must  have  lived  ignored 
by  the  world  outside.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  them  as 
leading  a  life  of  poetical  and  pastoral  simplicity  such 
as  one  associates  with  the  rites  of  a  mythologic  worship 
as  practiced  by  an  agricultural  people,  but  no  such  inno- 
cent view  was  taken  of  their  case  by  the  pious  church 
chronicler  who  discovered  their  deplorable  condition. 

"In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Saint  Peter  himself  is  said 
to  have  preached  Christianity  here,"  he  remarks,  "  these 
unfortunate  people  are  plunged  in  the  profound  darkness 
of  ignorance  and  the  unspeakable  horror  of  idolatry!" 


164  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

Deliverance,  however,  was  near  at  hand,  for  the 
career  of  Saint  Benedict  had  already  begun.  Born  of  noble 
parents,  such  was  his  piety  that  at  the  early  age  of  four- 
teen, shocked  by  the  corruption  of  Rome,  he  fled  from 
the  city  with  his  nurse  Cyrilla  and  for  three  years  hid 
himself  in  a  cave  of  the  Sabine  Mountains,  where  he 
was  fed  by  a  devoted  hermit.  The  extraordinary  sanc- 
tity of  his  life  attracted  a  host  of  followers,  and  in  the 
course  of  years  Saint  Benedict  had  founded  twelve  monas- 
teries. Here  he  cultivated  thorns  of  a  peculiarly  sharp 
and  cruel  variety,  to  be  used  in  the  mortification  and 
laceration  of  the  flesh,  but  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi,  upon 
visiting  these  monasteries  some  centuries  later,  converted 
them  all  into  roses,  which  flourish  in  profusion  to-day. 
At  length  the  jealousy  of  certain  priests  of  that  country 
reached  such  a  pitch  that  they  laid  plans  to  corrupt  the 
monks  of  Saint  Benedict  and  even  to  poison  the  Saint 
himself.  Therefore,  in  order  to  be  no  longer  a  source  of 
disturbance  in  the  region,  and  in  accordance  with  a  divine 
message,  Saint  Benedict,  with  two  of  his  most  cherished 
disciples,  departed  and  journeyed  toward  the  south.  Two 
angels  led  the  way  and  three  crows  flew  slowly  behind, 
and  Saint  Damien  assures  us  that  for  five  hundred  years 
the  descendants  of  these  crows  dwelt  at  the  monastery, 
where  several  tame  ones  are  still  kept  in  memory  of  the 
miracle. 

When  Saint  Benedict  reached  Monte  Cassino  he  dis- 
covered with  grief  the  condition  of  affairs  before  referred 
to.  In  shady  groves  and  graceful  temples  Venus,  Apollo 
and  Janus  were  worshiped  with  unquestioning  faith. 
The  summit  of  the  mountain,  a  fine  pyramidal  mass 
which  rises  steeply  from  the  plain,  was  crowned  by  a  cit- 
adel built  of  those  enormous  cubic  blocks  of  rock  laid 
without  cement  which  stir  the  wonder  of  the  builders  of 
to-day,  and  the  remains  of  which  may  still  be  seen.  In 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO        165 

the  heart  of  this  impregnable  fortress  rose  their  most 
sacred  altar  to  the  war-god,  and  upon  this  very  spot  Saint 
Benedict  instantly  determined  to  plant  the  cross.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  preached  to  the  people  with  such  ardor  that 
they  hastened  to  renounce  their  idolatrous  errors  and 
with  their  own  hands  tore  down  the  statue  of  Apollo. 
Having  thus  firmly  established  the  religion  of  Catholi- 
cism, Saint  Benedict  set  himself  the  task  of  framing  a 
set  of  rules  for  conduct  which  if  observed  would  lead 
his  followers  to  a  state  of  absolute  perfection  upon  earth, 
and  in  this  he  succeeded  so  well  that  the  fame  of  its 
results  spread  rapidly  throughout  Europe.  After  this  he 
devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  presenting  a  shining 
example  of  all  the  virtues  to  his  numerous  disciples, 
and  the  miracles  he  wrought  would  if  recounted  fill 
volumes. 

After  the  death  of  Saint  Benedict  the  monastery  was 
again  and  again  almost  destroyed.  Pillaged  and  burned 
by  the  Lombards  and  later  by  the  Saracens,  and  over- 
thrown by  earthquake,  it  nevertheless  rose  each  time  from 
its  ruins,  was  patiently  rebuilt  by  the  remnant  of  its 
monks,  and  continued  its  life  as  before.  Saint  Benedict 
had  embodied  in  his  rules  the  order  that  his  monks 
should  occupy  themselves  with  manual  labor,  music  and 
study,  a  precept  which  contained  the  germ  of  their  future 
pursuit  of  science  and  letters.  The  library  of  the  monas- 
tery became  famous,  and  after  the  invention  of  printing 
a  press  was  kept  busy  in  connection  with  it.  Among  its 
publications  one  may  contemplate  with  awe  the  work  of 
one  of  its  humble  but  indefatigable  brothers,  a  Hebrew 
and  Chaldean  lexicon,  "with  perpetual  commentary," 
in  ninety-nine  volumes,  upon  which  he  spent  thirty  years 
of  uninterrupted  labor! 

But  to  return  to  the  evening  of  our  arrival.  The 
inn  was  less  pretentious  than  its  name,  Hotel  Villa  Marco 


166  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

Varrone  indicating,  of  course,  that  it  stood  upon  the  site 
of  the  Home  of  the  Muses.  Fortunately  the  clean 
linen  sheets  which  made  the  beds  inviting  helped  one  to 
overlook  the  fact  that  the  sweeping  of  floors  was  super- 
ficial, and  the  dinner,  served  upon  a  very  small  table  in 
the  corner  of  a  half-lighted  drawing-room,  was  passable. 

In  the  evening  we  explored  the  little  town,  which 
begins  in  the  valley  and  climbs  for  a  short  distance  up 
the  sudden  and  steep  incline  of  the  mountain.  Bits  of 
old  Roman  pavement  can  still  be  traced  in  the  streets, 
and  the  views  gain  in  beauty  with  every  step  of  ascent. 
The  broad  floor  of  the  valley  stretches  away,  watered  by 
the  pretty  winding  stream  of  the  Garigliano,  and  sur- 
rounding it  are  mountains  of  fine  and  varied  shapes. 
Some  hundreds  of  feet  above  the  village  is  a  castle  of 
commanding  picturesqueness,  and  high  above  all  sits  the 
monastery  upon  the  leveled  top  of  its  lofty  cone.  A 
perfectly-built  road  with  stone  parapet  leads  with  many 
a  curve  and  zigzag  from  the  valley  upward,  and  low  trees 
and  sparse  grass  cover  the  slopes.  Part  way  up,  the  suc- 
cessive shrines  of  a  calvary  surprised  us  by  their  ruined 
condition,  not  the  gradual  decay  of  antiquity,  but  the 
result  of  disregard  and  wantonness,  and  gave  us  an  uneasy 
feeling  of  inclination  to  remain  in  Cassino  and  see  to  it 
that  they  were  restored  to  completeness  and  respect. 
Work  upon  the  road  was  still  going  on,  and  the  laborers, 
who  bore  heavy  burdens  of  stone  upon  their  heads,  were 
girls  and  women. 

The  next  morning  we  wakened  early,  but  a  continu- 
ous hum  of  voices  was  already  rising  from  the  street 
below,  and  on  looking  down  a  cheerful  crowd  could  be 
seen  chatting  and  exchanging  salutations  as  they  moved 
toward  the  open  market-place.  We  exulted  as  we  per- 
ceived that  the  women  wore  the  bright  skirts,  laced 
bodices,  and  white  head-dresses  of  their  national  costume, 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       167 

set  off  with  beads  and  ear-rings;  but  there  was  an  added 
touch,  quite  local  and  altogether  delightful.  Upon  their 
heads  they  carried  open  baskets  containing  the  produce 
they  had  brought  to  dispose  of,  and  these  were  covered 
with  gayly  striped  homespun  scarfs.  As  soon  as  break- 
fast was  over  we  went  out  to  enjoy  the  company  and  if 
possible  to  become  possessed  of  scarfs.  Addressing  one 
of  the  women,  we  asked  if  she  wished  to  sell  her  coperta. 
She  drew  back  and  abruptly  refused,  we  thought  with 
rather  an  offended  air.  However,  we  tried  again,  and  the 
second  woman  was  not  unwilling  to  part  with  hers.  An 
officious  bystander  stepped  in  to  assist  at  the  bargaining, 
and  thereafter  constituted  himself  master  of  ceremonies. 
We  completed  the  purchase  amid  the  waxing  excitement 
of  the  community,  bore  off  the  first  coperta,  and  prepared 
to  secure  a  second.  There  was  a  great  difference  in 
them,  the  choice  of  coloring  in  some  being  pleasant  and 
harmonious,  while  in  others  it  was  crude  and  tasteless. 
Offers  came  thick  and  fast;  we  were  crowded  and  pressed 
upon;  coper te  were  waved  at  us  over  the  heads  of  the 
multitude;  everybody  vociferated  and  shouted  at  once, 
and  all  in  sight  ran  to  join  the  throng.  The  second 
coperta  was  had  for  a  somewhat  less  price,  and  then  a 
third  and  fourth  became  ours.  We  had  paid  eight  and 
ten  lire,  which  I  suspect  was  considered  to  afford  a  desir- 
able profit,  but  after  all  who  could  grudge  such  a  sum  to 
the  patient  women  who  had  woven  them? 

It  was  difficult  to  convince  them  that  we  did  not 
need  the  coperte  of  all  Cassino,  but  at  last  a  diversion 
was  effected  through  the  medium  of  our  self-constituted 
impresario,  and  the  assemblage  was  given  to  understand 
that  one  of  the  Signore  wished  to  take  a  photograph. 
Our  funds  by  this  time  having  run  low,  I  returned  to  the 
hotel,  which  was  not  far  away,  for  soldi  to  pay  the  models, 
who  meanwhile  were  to  be  posed  in  a  favorable  position. 


168  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

On  my  return,  in  the  course  iof  a  few  minutes,  there  was 
no  longer  any  hope  of  approaching  the  photographer, 
who  was  now  surrounded  by  a  solid  wall  of  human  beings. 
Through  occasional  apertures  in  the  mass,  as  the  people 
shifted  and  swayed  in  their  efforts  to  get  a  better  view, 
we  caught  glimpses  of  our  aid  beating  back  the  crowd, 
while  the  artist  with  undaunted  coolness  posed  and  in- 
structed her  subjects.  I  know  not  how  we  should  have 
extricated  ourselves  from  the  eager  importunities  of  the 
populace  but  for  the  arrival  of  the  carriage  which  was  to 
take  us  up  the  mountain.  We  struggled  into  it  and 
drove  away,  leaving  behind  us  proffered  coperte  of  every 
hue. 

The  monastery  of  Monte  Cassino,  which  has  been 
declared  a  "  national  monument,"  is  at  present  conducted 
by  about  forty  monks,  who  devote  themselves  to  the 
education  of  some  two  hundred  boys.  These,  when 
released  from  their  studies,  may  be  seen  capering  about 
its  solemn  courts  and  cloisters  and  tearing  up  and  down 
the  magnificent  width  of  its  stone  stairways.  Upon  our 
arrival  we  received  permission,  on  presentation  of  visiting- 
cards,  to  be  shown  the  building  and  to  have  luncheon 
served  to  us,  and  after  walking  about  for  a  while  unguided 
we  were  conducted  to  a  small  room  opening  from  one 
end  of  a  long  refectory,  where  a  meal  had  been  prepared 
for  us.  We  were  waited  upon  by  a  young  brother  in 
long  black  robes,  rather  shy  but  very  gentle  and  polite, 
who  seemed  pleased  to  answer  all  our  questions ;  and 
afterward  we  were  put  into  the  care  of  another,  older  and 
more  experienced,  and  started  upon  a  tour  of  sight- 
seeing. 

There  was  so  much  to  see  that  I  believe  had  our 
zeal  equaled  that  of  our  cicerone,  we  might  have  remained 
for  days.  He  was  a  tall,  spare  monk  of  about  sixty,  and 
his  fervid  love  and  admiration  for  his  monastery  were  so 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       169 

genuine  and  unaffected  as  to  be  truly  touching.  Every 
stone  of  it  was  dear  to  him,  every  relic  precious,  and  it 
would  indeed  have  been  a  perfunctory  sight-seer  who 
could  have  resisted  warming  to  his  enthusiasm.  Our 
sympathy  gladdened  his  heart  and  he  grew  more  and 
more  eloquent  and  expansive,  while  every  sentence  bris- 
tled with  "Gia!"  and  "Ecc!"  as  his  long  thin  arms 
flung  themselves  abroad  in  waving  our  gaze  to  glories 
around  and  above  us. 

The  riches  that  have  been  showered  upon  this  foun- 
dation are  almost  incredible.  The  whole  interior  of  the 
great  church,  for  example,  is  incrusted  to  the  ceiling  with 
costly  marbles,  in  panel  and  mosaic  of  every  tint  conceiv- 
able. Numbers  of  chapels  are  finished  each  in  different 
color  and  design,  a  rare  and  beautiful  green  marble  from 
Africa  often  appearing.  There  is  also  much  lapis  lazuli, 
and  one  altar  is  enriched  with  large  amethysts.  Gilding 
and  fresco  are  lavished  everywhere  and  the  carving  is 
elaborate  and  magnificent.  And  to  think  of  all  this  on 
a  lonely  mountain-top,  miles  away  from  any  city ! 

But  this  was  but  a  small  part  of  it ;  we  walked 
through  room  after  room,  corridor  after  corridor.  The 
library  alone  is  almost  endless  and  full  of  rare  manu- 
scripts and  valuable  old  volumes,  gifts  from  rich  patrons. 
That  it  should  have  accumulated  or  retained  such  riches 
is  wonderful,  for  no  further  back  than  the  end  of  the  last 
century  the  fiends  of  the  French  Revolution,  after  hav- 
ing stolen  everything  possible  to  carry  away,  ruined  and 
destroyed  what  was  left  until  they  were  sated,  taking 
especial  pains  to  tear  into  fragments  and  set  on  fire 
archives,  precious  manuscripts,  and  books. 

From  the  library  we  were  taken  down,  down,  seem- 
ingly into  the  bowels  of  the  mountain,  to  the  portion 
covering  the  spot  where  Saint  Benedict  lived  and  worked. 
Here  wonders  recommenced.  What  would  be  the 


i;o  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

amazement  of  that  holy  man,  could  he  behold  the  trans- 
formation which  has  taken  place  there !  Everywhere 
under  foot,  in  pavements  and  broad  stairways,  we  trod 
upon  a  polished  stone,  so  beautiful  with  its  perfect  sur- 
face and  warm  creamy  color  that  we  were  tempted  to 
examine  it  especially.  We  were  surprised  to  find  that  it 
was  limestone,  and  fell  to  wondering  how  a  substance  so 
much  richer  in  effect  than  white  marble  should  not  be 
oftener  chosen  in  its  place  for  similar  purposes.  The 
walls  were  covered  with  never-ending  legend  and  story 
in  modern  fresco,  and  our  guide  lovingly  expounded  it 
all.  Occasionally  we  came  to  a  huge  rugged  segment  of 
earlier  building,  containing  a  lancet  window  or  a  heavy 
arch.  A  battle-scarred  portal  had  escaped  destruction, 
and  there  it  hung,  a  thousand  years  old,  bound  and 
clamped  with  iron,  and  armed  with  prodigious  bolts,  war- 
like and  formidable  still. 

When  all  was  done  we  had  not  seen  half  the  extent 
of  the  building,  indeed  hardly  two  sides  of  the  greater 
quadrangle.  On  taking  leave  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
feeing  or  direct  payment  of  any  kind,  but  one  may  place 
an  offering  in  the  box  at  the  door,  and  this,  of  course, 
one  is  glad  to  make  ample  enough  to  be  a  suitable  return 
for  such  entertainment. 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  drove  down  the  mountain 
again,  lain  in  wait  for  at  one  or  two  favorable  angles  of 
the  road  by  skirmishers  with  coperte  for  sale.  A  last 
determined  effort  was  made  at  the  station,  where  just 
before  our  departure  two  persons  urged  us  to  become 
purchasers  of  a  coperta  of  especial  value,  according  to 
their  assurances.  It  being  particularly  new,  raw  and 
garish,  by  a  natural  course  of  logic  they  had  reasoned 
that  if  an  old  and  worn  coperta  were  desirable  how  much 
more  so  must  be  a  new  and  unused  one  of  such  dazzling 
colors.  Their  disappointment  almost  induced  us  to 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       171 

encourage  a  low  standard  of  taste  in  Cassino — almost, 
but  not  quite,  and  we  departed  leaving  it  behind. 

RAVELLO. 

"  Where  vines  carve  friezes  'neath  the  eaves, 
And  in  dark  firmaments  of  leaves 
The  orange  lifts  its  golden  moons." 

—  LOWELL.     An  Invitation. 

Of  all  places  in  the  region  about  Naples  to  dream 
happy  days  away  in,  Ravello  most  steals  the  heart.  I 
know  that  no  stage-setting  can  surpass  in  perfection 
Amalfi,  no  fairy-tale  equal  the  old  Capuchin  monastery, 
with  its  proud  position,  its  matchless  pergola,  and  the 
charm  of  its  interior.  But  if  time  at  all  presses,  after  a 
day  and  night  it  is  better  to  mount  the  thousand  feet 
remaining  before  you  reach  the  heights  of  Ravello  and 
there  for  a  while  fix  your  abode. 

Those  who  drive  up  the  steep  mountain  road  in  the 
heat  of  the  day,  swallow  a  hasty  luncheon,  take  a  pre- 
occupied glance  at  the  view,  and  a  hurried  survey  of  the 
mosaics  in  its  cathedral,  and  then  are  off  again,  know  not 
Ravello.  What  could  they  tell  of  evenings  on  the 
Bishop's  Terrace,  of  rambles  in  the  chestnut  woods,  of 
hours  of  revery  in  the  gentle  decay  of  deserted  gardens, 
of  climbs  through  remote  hill  villages  when  morning's 
energy  makes  activity  easy,  and  sunsets  from  the  Belve- 
dere of  Cembrone,  with  the  most  heavenly  prospect  in 
the  world  spread  out  at  one's  feet?  No,  Ravello  is  too 
rare  and  beautiful  to  be  treated  with  the  disrespect  of  a 
superficial  glance. 

Then,  you  can  be  so  nobly  lodged  there.  You  may 
become  a  guest  at  the  bishop's  palace  and  enjoy  the  free- 
dom of  the  charming  old  place  without  and  within,  where 
the  dining-table  is  laid  in  what  was  once  the  private 


172  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

chapel,  and  the  sacred  dove  still  hovers  in  the  fresco  of 
the  ceiling.  The  red  and  white  wines  here  offered  are 
far-famed  and  delicious.  From  the  dining-room  you 
step  out  upon  the  stone-paved  terrace,  enclosed  and  pro- 
tected on  two  sides  by  the  building  itself,  like  a  roofless 
veranda,  and  opening  to  the  garden  on  the  third,  while 
the  fourth  overhangs  the  azure  gulf  of  Salerno  far  below, 
and  the  long  perspective  of  mountainous  coast  sweeps 
away  in  blue  and  bluer  lines  toward  the  sunny  plain  of 
Paestum.  One  cannot  from  here  detect  the  remains  of 
Greek  beauty  that  spring  from  that  sacred  earth,  but  one 
is  conscious  they  are  there — those  eternal  temples,  the 
perfection  of  whose  soaring  columns,  golden  and  sun- 
warmed,  rises  ever  against  a  crystalline  sky  from  the  deep 
green  of  banked  acanthus  and  starry  asphodel. 

But  here  on  the  terrace  it  is  restful  and  beautiful 
enough  for  the  soul  of  any  mortal,  and  so  it  is  to  pass 
beyond  into  the  more  retired  little  garden,  so  small  in 
extent  but  with  its  space  so  used  as  to  outvalue  an  en- 
closure many  times  its  size.  This  knowledge  of  how 
to  use  a  space,  surely  it  requires  as  high  a  wisdom  in 
gardening  as  in  filling  a  canvas.  This  one  rears  a  thick 
wall  toward  the  side  from  which  might  come  any  inva- 
sion of  its  privacy,  while  a  low  solid  parapet  faces  the 
view  on  the  other.  The  alleys  that  traverse  it  are  sunk 
some  fifteen  inches  below  the  surface  of  the  flower-beds, 
from  which  they  are  divided  by  broad  substantial  copings 
of  stone,  worn  to  pleasant  irregularities.  Upon  these 
copings  as  a  foundation  rise  in  every  direction  heavy  pil- 
lars which  uphold  a  rough  open  lattice  made  of  the  slim 
trunks  of  saplings  with  the  bark  left  upon  them,  and 
yielding  support  for  gnarled  and  twisted  grapevines  that, 
meeting  and  crossing  above,  form  a  leafy  roof  over  the 
whole  garden.  At  the  end  of  one  vista  the  wafl  retreats 
to  form  a  semicircular  recess,  and  there  between  stone 


RAVELLO.      A   BY-WAY. 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       173 

benches  stands  a  little  table  where  in  a  pleasant  shade 
coffee  may  be  enjoyed  and  books  spread  out.  Against 
the  mellow  walls  silhouettes  of  grape-leaves  fall  aslant, 
and  gay  blossoms  look  up  everywhere  toward  the  sun- 
shine that  sifts  down  through  the  rustic  screen  overhead. 

Ravello  is  planted  upon  the  summit  of  a  spur  of 
limestone  rock,  a  sort  of  promontory  with  steeply  de- 
scending sides,  that  juts  from  Monte  Cerrito,  pushes 
out  toward  the  sea,  and  then  suddenly  terminates  in  the 
precipice  of  Cembrone. 

Great  was  its  history  in  those  early  centuries  when 
it  was  harried  by  pirates  and  figured  in  legendary  romance, 
when  its  nobles  lent  of  their  wealth  to  princes,  founded 
colonies,  and  filled  high  positions  in  church  and  state. 
The  remains  of  its  many  palaces,  now  sheltering  the 
remnant  of  its  once  great  population,  show  what  it 
must  have  been ;  and  all  through  the  little  town  bits  of 
carved  marble,  pillars,  capitals,  fragments  of  inscriptions, 
are  built  into  the  walls  of  dwellings  already  old  yet  young 
enough  to  have  borrowed  from  an  earlier  age. 

One  splendidly  constructed  road  approaches  Ravello 
from  the  shore  by  many  a  turning  and  stops  short  before 
the  cathedral.  Beyond  this  point  all  exploration  must 
be  on  foot.  There  are  narrow  stone-paved  lanes,  with 
flights  of  steps  which  mount  to  higher  levels  or  drop  to 
lower  ones.  A  path,  for  example,  will  have  a  few  rough 
stairs  of  irregular  blocks  of  stone,  then  a  ^few  steps  of 
slope  more  or  less  steep,  then  more  stairs,  and  so  on. 
And  up  and  down  these  precipitous  pitches  run  the  bare- 
footed women  and  children  as  easily  and  confidently  as 
goats,  the  women  often  with  huge  burdens  upon  their 
heads.  These  I  have  seen  of  such  weight  and  bulk  that 
they  could  only  be  carried  and  balanced  with  the  bearer 
in  motion.  For  any  pause  on  the  way  they  must  be 
shifted  to  the  ground. 


174  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

There  is  great  beauty  among  these  people,  and  many 
of  the  children  especially  are  adorable  little  creatures,  with 
big  appealing  eyes  and  charmingly  moulded  faces.  But 
it  is  sad  to  see  how  prevalent  goitre  is  among  the  older 
women  and  what  a  fearful  size  it  reaches.  One  poor 
creature,  not  past  middle  age,  sits  and  begs  just  without 
the  episcopal  palace.  Goitre  of  a  size  beyond  belief 
disfigures  her,  and  she  was  born  blind.  She  greets  every 
passer-by  with  a  monotonous  whine,  but  this  is  merely 
professional.  She  is  in  reality  a  thrifty,  able,  and  not 
uncheerful  person.  Blind  as  she  is,  she  walks  all  over 
the  village  alone,  she  takes  care  of  herself,  attends  to  her 
own  house,  even  to  scrubbing  the  floors,  and  when  not 
plying  her  occupation  of  begging  talks  pleasantly  and 
sensibly  about  her  life. 

From  a  walk  in  the  chestnut  woods  behind  and 
above  Ravello  you  descend  at  first  upon  the  Piazza  del 
Toro,  balancing  itself  upon  a  saddle  of  the  ridge  and 
overhung  upon  one  side  by  palaces  that  once  belonged  to 
the  most  ancient  and  august  families  of  the  region.  In- 
deed the  piazza  was  once  the  point  of  extremest  aristo- 
cratic exclusiveness  in  all  Ravello.  Only  the  nobles 
might  live  here.  Here  they  built  their  sumptuous  abodes 
and  with  fortifying  walls  dominated  the  citizens  and  laid 
grievous  taxes  upon  them.  So  steep  are  the  approaches 
that  one  marvels  how  it  was  ever  possible  to  trans- 
port thither  the  marble  columns  used  in  its  lavish 
adornment. 

There  is  nothing  bellicose  or  imperious  at  present 
in  the  aspect  of  the  piazza.  What  remains  of  its  walls 
and  palaces  is  free  to  a  population  which  looks  evenly 
democratic  enough,  and  all  is  open  to  the  sun  and  breeze. 
In  the  midst  rises  a  fountain,  one  of  the  most  delight- 
fully quaint  in  all  Italy,  on  whose  broad  rim  stand  a  lion 
and  a  winged  bull.  As  we  stood  enjoying  the  grotesque 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       175 

proportions  of  the  latter  animal,  with  his  surprising  breadth 
of  countenance  and  scantiness  of  ear  and  horn,  an  old 
peasant  came  to  draw  water  and  complete  the  picture,  for 
he  bore  with  him  a  copper  water-jar  in  shape  as  beautiful 
as  a  Greek  vase  and  in  color  such  a  rich  combination 
of  shaded  reds  and  greens  as  made  its  polished  surface 
resemble  an  agate. 

In  this  piazza  we  had  a  friendly  chat  with  some 
daughters  of  the  people  who  took  a  frank  interest  in  the 
cut  of  our  garments,  but  that  part  of  the  population  with 
which  we  became  most  familiar  was  certain  groups  of 
naughty,  pertinacious  little  girls  who  attach  themselves 
to  strollers  in  the  base  hope  of  gain  and  are  not  to  be 
shaken  off.  In  the  beginning  a  lengthy  appeal  for  alms 
assailed  us  from  the  rear,  couched  in  tones  of  a  woe  so 
artificial  that  I  presently  turned  and  gazed  at  the  little 
imposter  with  a  frown  of  the  same  exaggerated  quality,  at 
which  she  instantly  burst  into  a  fit  of  irrepressible 

les. 

We  thought  it  best  to  have  an  explanation  with  her 
and  her  companions  at  the  outset,  and  laid  down  our 
principles  with  great  distinctness,  throwing  in  some  moral 
warning  in  regard  to  the  degradation  of  beggary  and 
closing  with  a  clear  statement  of  our  preference  for  a  walk 
unaccompanied.  This  was  all  received  in  high  good 
humor,  but  not  with  any  degree  of  seriousness,  and  the 
young  ladies  still  continued  to  attach  themselves  to  us, 
trotting  behind  or  beside  us  and  ever  and  anon  from 
mere  habit  throwing  in  a  perfunctory  suggestion  of  soldi. 
They  pattered  after  us  up  long  ladders  of  staircased 
streets,  leaned  with  us  over  stone  walls,  and  volun- 
teered information  about  the  bella  vista  and  the  gen- 
eral affairs  of  Ravello  with  great  sociability,  and  their 
sense  of  humor  after  a  while  quite  reconciled  us  to  their 
company. 


176  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

In  leaving  the  Piazza,  del  Toro  you  may  proceed 
through  a  crumbling  arch,  the  very  outline  of  which 
against  the  sky  is  a  pure  pleasure,  and  stop  a  moment, 
if  you  choose  to  call,  at  the  portal  of  the  great  d'Afflitti 
family.  It  combines  more  varied  architectural  elements 
than  were  surely  ever  before  called  together  in  one  portal, 
and  as  if  to  mock  its  own  once  haughty  exclusiveness  it 
now  invites  the  entrance  of  an  indiscriminate  public, 
having  fallen  to  the  estate  of  an  inn  of  but  the  second 
class.  Passing  it  you  thread  your  way  between  lofty 
walls  whose  huge  stones  form  bosses  and  ledges  where 
moss  and  grass  like  to  cling.  Then  dipping  toward  the 
open  piazza  of  the  cathedral  and  again  ascending  a  little 
through  the  roughly  paved  streets  with  their  frequent 
turnings,  ducking  under  low  roofs  and  arches,  you  at 
last  near  the  end  of  the  ridge  and  ask  entrance  at  the 
gate  of  the  garden  where  the  Belvedere  of  Cembrone 
waits  to  show  you  the  boundaries  of  Ravello  under  the 
magic  of  the  sunset. 

Sometimes  the  entrance  at  this  wicket  is  easy,  and 
sometimes  grudging,  but  in  the  latter  case  a  prospect  of 
soldi  usually  persuades,  and  you  saunter  down  the  central 
avenue  between  the  spare  fruit-trees  and  humble  vege- 
table-beds that  have  succeeded  to  the  splendors  of  the 
cardinal's  pleasure-ground.  At  the  end  you  pass  under 
a  pretty  temple-like  pavilion  of  stone  and  stand  upon 
the  noble  escarpment  crowned  by  the  belvedere.  The 
wide  stone  parapet  upon  the  outer  edge  swells  at  inter- 
vals into  pedestals  which  bear  up  a  succession  of  marble 
busts.  One  wonders  who  they  are,  these  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen of  a  period  not  very  remote,  portrayed  with  an 
art  so  innocent  of  anatomy  and  proportion.  But  the 
eyes  rest  upon  them  but  a  moment.  What  are  they,  in 
the  face  of  the  glorified  world  unrolled  below  and  be- 
yond !  A  thousand  feet  down  the  blue  waters  dance  and 


RAVELLO.        THE  FOUNTAIN  IN  PIAZZA  DEL  TORO. 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       177 

sparkle,  and  a  white  crest  of  foam  outlines  the  rocky 
shore,  where  sometimes  out  of  the  very  billows,  some- 
times from  a  position  a  little  more  elevated,  those 
time-gnawed  towers  lift  themselves  that  watched  for 
the  attacks  of  the  corsairs. 

On  one  side  of  the  spur  of  Ravello  the  Dragone 
leaps  and  foams  in  its  swift  descent  to  the  shore,  and 
spanning  bridges  and  picturesque  stone  mills  mark 
stages  of  its  progress.  Upon  the  other  a  narrower  but 
quite  as  turbulent  and  noisy  stream  flows  down  through 
the  little  town  of  Minori,  whose  white  houses  and  pretty 
marina  peep  cheerfully  from  between  the  inclining  hills. 
Beyond,  toward  the  east,  the  jagged  peaks  of  Monte 
Finestra  are  penciled  against  the  sky,  and  on  the  north- 
west towers  the  triple  mass  of  Monte  St.  Angelo.  And 
then  in  a  sort  of  magnificently  ordered  confusion,  down- 
plunging  toward  the  sea  in  every  variety  of  form,  come 
beetling  cliffs,  sharp  peaks,  green  hollows,  dark  red 
masses  of  rock,  clinging  vineyards,  and  ruins  of  tower 
or  castle  emerging  from  the  soft  enveloping  green  of 
chestnut  woods.  On  all  this  imperishable  loveliness 
falls  the  glorifying  radiance  of  the  sunset,  and  you  stand 
silent  before  it,  while  if  it  dims  the  eye  for  a  moment  it 
paints  itself  in  unfading  colors  upon  the  memory. 

The  cathedral  of  Ravello  even  in  its  present  de- 
flowered state  still  possesses,  from  the  wreck  of  its  prime, 
marbles  and  mosaics  of  such  beauty  as  to  divide  one's 
emotions  between  gratitude  for  what  survives  and  indig- 
nation at  the  wanton  destruction  that  blighted  it.  Its 
foundation,  dating  from  the  eleventh  or  twelfth  century, 
seems  to  have  been  due  to  the  Rufolo  family,  then  and 
thereafter  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  Ravello,  and  as 
different  members  subsequently  added  to  its  adornment 
from  time  to  time,  their  gifts  were  chronicled  in  long 
Latin  inscriptions,  some  of  which  are  now  obliterated, 


iy8  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

whose    quaintness    may    be   inferred   from    one   which 
runs  as  follows: — 

"  This  work  Matthaeus  Rufulus  ordered 
to  be  made  in  honour  of  the  Virgin  and  her 
Son,  and  for  the  adornment  of  his  country. 
<To  him,  the  lord,  whose  wife  is  Anna,  let 
these  be  grateful. 

"Laurentius,  their  first  in  order  of  birth, 
Bartholomew  is  here  to  none  second  in 
probity,  Simon,  and  younger  than  they  Fran- 
ciscus  pure  of  crime.  These  are  the  sons  of 
the  first  born,  Nicoletta,  lohannes,  Mat- 
thaeus, the  boy  Urso,  whose  bodies  may'st 
^hou  not  damn.  Here  follows  a  third  Mat- 
thaeus, Simon  s  son ;  may  he  his  grandfather 
follow,  blessed  in  fame  and  in  life.  All  these 
do  'Thou,  O  highest  God,  with  fatherly 
affection  for  many  seasons  save  !  " 

To  enter  the  cathedral  was  once  to  pass  under  a 
porch  supported  upon  stately  columns  of  African  marble, 
and  adorned  with  lesser  pillars  and  arches  in  richly 
colored  stone,  while  two  flights  of  white  marble  steps  led 
to  the  piazza  below.  The  interior  glowed  with  fresco 
and  shone  with  dazzling  surfaces  of  mosaic.  There  were 
massive  pillars  of  many-tinted  marbles  brought  from 
distant  countries,  and  much  woodwork,  carved  in  won- 
drous designs,  and  never,  we  are  told,  did  holy  walls 
arise  to  cover  so  fair  a  treasure  of  all  goodly  and  beaute- 
ous things. 

Upon  all  this  magnificence,  toned  and  mellowed  by 
time  and  hallowed  by  long  association,  fell  the  baleful 
shadow  of  the  eighteenth  century,  that  fatal  age  which 
withered  and  disfigured  so  much  that  had  endured  and 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       179 

ripened  till  that  time.  Then,  alas !  for  the  hapless  cathe- 
dral of  San  Pantaleone,  it  fell  under  the  authority  of  a 
certain  unspeakable  Bishop  Tafuri,  who  in  a  fury  of  ig- 
norant "restoration"  wrecked  this  beautiful  temple  and 
left  it  as  we  see  it  to-day,  shorn  of  its  rich  portico,  its 
precious  columns  of  verd-antique  sold  into  foreign  lands, 
its  frescoes  smothered  with  whitewash,  its  carved  choir- 
stalls  and  superb  baldachino  carried  away,  its  tombs  des- 
ecrated, and  its  marbles  and  inscriptions  scattered  abroad 
or  covered  with  plaster. 

Inside  the  great  bronze  doors  scarcely  anything 
remains  besides  the  bishop's  throne  excepting  the  ambo 
and  the  pulpit,  but  these  are  worth  coming  far  to  see. 
Such  beauty  of  proportion,  such  a  marvel  of  wrought 
marble  and  intricate  mosaic,  such  ingenuity  of  device 
a'nd  beauty  of  execution  make  these  fragments  of  a  con- 
summate whole  celebrated  throughout  the  world  of  art. 
Delightful  marble  lions  hold  up  the  twisted  supporting 
columns  of  the  ambo,  whose  capitals  flower  into  lovely 
variety  above  and  each  panel  of  luminous  mosaic  shows 
a  new  scheme  of  color  and  tracery. 

Upon  the  pulpit,  simpler  in  form  and  less  brilliant 
in  tint,  are  represented  the  two  most  important  episodes 
in  the  dramatic  career  of  Jonah.  On  the  one  side  the 
whale,  terrible  to  behold,  with  dragon-like  tail,  wings 
and  claws,  rears  his  distended  jaws  aloft,  between  which 
a  resigned  pair  of  legs  with  the  ankles  held  evenly 
together  is  disappearing.  Upon  the  other,  Jonah  is 
emerging  from  the  same  jaws  with  dignified  deliberation, 
his  raised  left  hand  calling  the  attention  of  the  devout 
and  his  countenance  expressing  the  last  degree  of  saintly 
acquiescence. 

In  the  bishop's  palace  our  bedroom  windows  look 
directly  over  the  edge  of  the  steep  descent  to  Minori, 
down  upon  whose  roofs  we  could  almost  drop  a  stone. 


i8o  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

On  Thursday  evenings  a  curious  and  touching  custom 
is  still  kept  up  there,  the  celebration  of  the  institution 
of  the  sacrament.  This  is  done  by  placing  a  light  in 
the  window  for  a  few  minutes.  We  watched  for  it,  and 
it  was  pretty  to  see  the  little  tremulous  sparks  appearing 
one  after  another  in  the  windows  of  the  humble  dwell- 
ings, resting  there  for  a  short  time  and  then  disappearing 
again. 

In  many  ways  little  Minori  had  attracted  us,  and  in 
the  end  we  decided  to  go  downstairs  and  pay  it  a  visit. 
The  abrupt  descent  is  by  means  of  many  a  staircase  of 
flat  stones  reached  by  zigzagging  between  whiles  in  nar- 
row rock-paved  ways,  sometimes  bounded  by  walls  and 
sometimes  only  by  abundant  wild  shrubbery,  but  all  is 
so  enveloped  in  green  that  from  below  a  path  could 
hardly  be  traced.  Meanwhile  Minori  smiles  up  at  one 
in  all  the  gayety  of  its  many  tints,  for  in  southern  Italy 
there  is  no  cowardly  avoidance  of  all  but  neutral  tones. 
The  dwellings  are  bright  with  pink,  yellow,  terra-cotta, 
or  pale  green,  but  there  is  nothing  raw  or  discordant, 
only  a  fine  riot  of  color  in  which  earth,  sky  and  water 
take  part.  Pots  of  flowers  stand  upon  the  window-sills, 
and  if  the  street  is  cramped  and  stone-lined  perhaps  a 
vine  is  coaxed  and  pruned  till  a  stout  leafless  rope  of  stem 
ascends  to  the  roof,  be  it  even  a  third  story,  there  to  blos- 
som and  expand  till  it  covers  a  shady  bower  for  summer. 

Having  reached  the  bottom,  we  suddenly  emerged 
upon  a  level  and  stepped  out  upon  the  marina  of  Minori, 
one  of  the  few  narrow  strips  of  flat  beach  that  the  rocky 
shore  affords.  Almost  instantaneously  we  became  objects 
of  an  uncontrolled  curiosity.  An  incredibly  numerous 
population  seemed  to  spring  from  the  earth  about  us, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  surrounded  by  a  crowd 
of  something  like  two  hundred.  We  were  almost  daunted ; 
we  asked  ourselves  for  a  moment  whether  we  were  not 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       181 

out  of  place  in  that  galere.  We  even  thought  of  beat- 
ing a  retreat;  but  at  this  juncture  a  protecting  angel 
appeared  in  the  form  of  a  pleasant-faced  official  in  a  plain 
blue  uniform  which  indicated  authority/ 

He  made  his  way  resolutely  toward  us,  freely  smack- 
ing the  small  boys  who  stood  in  the  way  and  pushing  the 
men  and  women  about  without  ceremony ,v  They  ap- 
peared on  their  part  to  feel  no  resentment,  and  falling 
back  at  once  kept  a  respectful  distance  while  our  protector 
explained  to  us  that  he  had  been  sent  to  the  relief  of  the 
ladies  by  his  excellency  the  Syndic,  who  had  given  him 
orders  to  accompany  and  guard  them  on  their  passeggiata. 
To  have  become  on  the  instant,  as  it  were,  the  guests 
of  the  municipality  inspired  confidence,  not  to  say  vanity, 
and  we  proceeded  on  our  way  without  any  further  annoy- 
ance. Indeed  the  attitude  of  the  crowd  had  not  been 
in  the  least  menacing  in  the  beginning,  and  we  learned 
later,  on  talking  with  our  guide,  that  the  reason  for  the 
presence  of  so  many  idly  curious  men  was  the  fact  that 
the  harvest  was  just  over,  so  that  for  the  moment  they 
were  out  of  employment. 

The  town,  widening  a  bit  at  the  opening  of  the 
ravine  which  its  little  stream  has  made,  extends  back  be- 
tween its  walls  and  climbs  somewhat  on  either  hand. 
One  could  almost  toss  a  pebble  from  one  boundary  to 
the  other.  The  stream  confined  between  stone  parapets 
beautified  by  the  action  of  time  and  water  is  the  centre 
of  everything  and  the  prettiest  and  most  individual  fea- 
ture of  the  little  place.  Our  guide  proved  a  pleasant, 
gentle  companion,  and  finally  did  us  the  honor  of  taking 
us  to  visit  his  family. 

To  see  the  interior  of  a  little  home  in  Minori  was 
more  than  we  had  hoped  for,  and  moreover  this  one  was 
charmingly  placed  at  just  such  an  altitude  as  enabled  its 
wee  sunny  terrace  to  overlook  the  rest  of  the  village.  It 


i8z  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

commanded  a  prospect  up  and  down  the  narrow  valley 
and  a  glimpse  of  the  towers  of  Ravello  crowning  the 
opposite  height.  Within,  the  wife  and  daughter  were 
cordiality  itself,  smilingly  showing  us  over  their  little 
establishment,  the  rooms  of  which  were  very  small  and 
sparely  furnished,  but  orderly  and  neat.  In  one  was 
a  hand-loom,  where  they  were  weaving  a  blue,  and  white 
cotton  fabric  not  unlike  Scotch  gingham.  In  the  few 
minutes  we  stayed  they  found  time  quickly  and  unob- 
trusively to  prepare  little  gifts  for  us,  and  as  we  left 
handed  to  each  of  the  three  a  large  fair  orange  and  a 
nosegay  of  roses  and  lemon  verbena. 

Our  guard  then  offered  to  show  us  a  new  route  by 
which  to  return  to  Ravello  and  respectfully  requested 
that  he  might  accompany  us,  urging  that  he  should  enjoy 
it,  that  it  would  be  a  pleasure,  and  we  made  no  resistance. 
As  before,  each  turn  of  the  ascent  was  a  point  of  vantage 
for  a  variation  upon  the  beautiful  view,  and  we  were 
always  under  some  graceful  vine-trellis,  or  passing  the 
open  door  of  a  little  bird's-nest  of  a  house  attached  to 
the  side  of  the  steep.  Sometimes  a  family  group  would 
be  sitting  just  outside  in  a  loggia,  and  they  always  greeted 
the  strangers  cordially.  Often  the  father  would  be  hold- 
ing in  his  arms  a  tiny  baby  rolled  tightly  in  its  swaddling- 
bands.  It  is  one  of  the  prettiest  things  to  see  the  pride 
and  pleasure  these  fathers  take  in  their  little  children, 
carrying  them  about  and  seeming  to  enjoy  them  so  much 
while  they  are  still  infants. 

About  half-way  up  a  young  priest  overtook  us,  and 
we  fell  into  conversation  with  him  as  we  continued  on 
the  way  together.  It  was  the  hour  for  evening  service, 
and  as  we  neared  his  little  church  he  invited  us  in,  and 
eagerly  showed  us  its  beauties,  the  images  of  the  Ma- 
donna, the  artless  pictures,  the  view  from  the  terrace. 
Presently  he  sent  an  old  woman  to  gather  lemons  for  us, 


RAVELLO.      THE  CHURCH  ON  THE  CLIFF. 


MONTE    CASSINO    AND    RAVELLO       183 

and  as  we  waited  the  women  and  children  began  to  gather 
toward  the  church  porch  where  we  stood.  Bent  old 
creatures  and  pretty,  fresh  little  girls  all  approached  him 
affectionately  before  going  in,  and  stooped  to  kiss  his 
hand.  One  young  thing  had  brought  him  a  bunch  of 
red  roses,  which  he  accepted  and  then  handed  to  us,  and 
presently  the  old  woman  returned  with  a  generous  quan- 
tity of  fine  lemons.  Upon  this  our  priest  produced  one 
of  the  large  and  gaudy  cotton  handkerchiefs  that  are 
bordered  with  the  coats  of  arms  of  the  principal  Italian 
cities,  and  tying  the  fruit  securely  into  it,  detailed  a  little 
boy  to  carry  it  for  us. 

We  separated  with  much  cordiality,  and  he  stood 
looking  after  us  for  a  few  moments,  framed  in  the 
shadowy  doorway,  before  he  turned  to  minister  to  the 
patient  flock  awaiting  him  within  the  church.  Then  we 
climbed  the  last  windings  to  the  Bishop's  Terrace,  and 
there  took  leave  of  our  friendly  guide,  who  soon  disap- 
peared into  the  twilight  that  was  already  settling  over 
Minori,  while  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  still  rested  upon 
our  heights. 


THE   HEART   OF   UMBRIA 

"Dall'  eccelse  vette  degli  alberi  Tusignuolo,  alato 
poeta  della  notte,  piange  e  chiama  la  compagna  lontana  e  sconosciuta. 

BUTTI.      Incantesimo  60. 


[N  a  progress  through  Umbria  few 
travelers  tarry  to  visit  the  little  town 
of  Narni,  peeping  over  the  crags 
that  rear  themselves  above  the  river 
Nar,  which  here  has  worn  a  narrow 
ravine  for  itself  on  its  way  to  join 
the  Tiber. 

It  was  a  gallant,  quarrelsome 
little  stronghold  in  its  day,  resent- 
ing and  resisting  the  papal  claim  of  supremacy  at  all 
times  while  it  ardently  engaged  in  feuds  with  its  neigh- 
bors upon  every  occasion  that  offered,  with  that  ever- 
present  eagerness  for  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death 
characteristic  of  its  age,  and  it  was  here  that  Gattamelata, 
that  famous  condottiere  of  the  fifteenth  century,  was  born. 
Its  position  could  hardly  be  more  commanding  and  its 
small  inn,  the  Angelo,  is  fortunately  suspended  over  the 
very  edge  of  the  cliffs,  from  which  one's  glance 
drops  in  a  single  leap  to  the  river  below  and  then 
climbs  the  opposite  height,  only  enough  less  steep  to 
give  foothold  to  a  thick  growth  of  ilex  trees  and  tangled 
shrubbery. 


THE    HEART    OF    UMBRIA  185 

It  was  noon  when  we  arrived,  a  warm  haze  hung 
upon  the  landscape  and  no  sound  came  from  the  ilex 
woods;  but  we  looked  lovingly  at  them  and  thought  of 
what  would  proceed  from  them  a  few  hours  later.  A 
rosy,  bright-eyed  cameriera  stood  sociably  beside  us  as 
we  leaned  from  our  window  and  chatted  about  the  view 
with  that  easy  but  not  disrespectful  familiarity  so  common 
in  her  class.  We  made  ourselves  at  home  in  the  short 
space  of  time  that  it  takes  to  bestow  a  light  supply  of 
luggage  and  descended  to  the  dining-room,  which  also 
commanded  the  view,  and  at  the  same  time,  through  an 
open  doorway  on  the  other  side,  a  prospect  if  one  pleased 
of  such  homely  occupations  as  preparing  vegetables  for 
the  next  meal.  We  were  the  only  guests  and  we  ate 
with  deliberation,  feasting  our  eyes  at  the  same  time  and 
remembering  that  as  Narni  had  once  suffered  an  almost 
annihilating  visit  from  the  Bourbons,  coarse  butchers  of 
her  art  treasures  as  well  as  of  her  inhabitants,  there  was 
now  little  left  that  need  crowd  the  conscience  of  a  sight- 
seer and  we  could  spend  our  day  following  the  impulse 
of  the  moment.  Then  we  wandered  forth  to  zigzag 
through  her  narrow  ascending  streets,  to  pause  before 
beautiful  bits  of  stone-carving  on  her  ancient  walls,  to 
dive  into  courts  —  little  cul-de-sacs  perhaps  entered  by 
a  single,  low,  heavy-arched  gateway — and  to  loiter 
before  the  interesting  old  vestibule  of  her  thirteenth 
century  cathedral. 

There  is  nothing  gloomy  or  forbidding  about  Narni ; 
even  its  disrepair  is  cheerful,  and  perhaps  most  cheerful 
of  all  is  its  hoary  castle,  now  converted  to  the  uses  of  a 
prison.  It  stands  somewhat  removed  from  the  village, 
commandingly  placed  above  it  all  and  so  owning  the 
widest  possible  outlook.  We  seated  ourselves  upon  the 
edge  of  a  steep  grassy  bank  just  below  it  to  rest  and  watch 
the  sunset,  and  were  presently  aware  of  the  combined  hum 


186  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

of  many  voices  pitched  in  a  low  key.  We  looked  up 
and  perceived  the  big  arched  windows  of  the  principal 
floor  of  the  castle  crowded  with  manly  figures  who  gazed 
forth  enjoying  the  sunset,  the  beautiful  view  and  the 
soft  evening  air  and  at  the  same  time  the  amenities  of 
light  conversation. 

Here  then  was  a  place  where  man,  even  under  the 
displeasure  of  the  law,  was  regarded  as  a  being  having 
social  requirements.  The  chilling  severity  of  solitary 
confinement  was  not  allowed  to  damp  the  spirits  of  the 
erring  inhabitants  of  Narni.  There  was  the  same  ami- 
cable and  animated  buzzing  that  rises  at  an  afternoon  tea- 
party  and  there  was  something  so  cheerfully  sociable 
about  it — not  a  discordant  note  rising  into  prominence 
anywhere — that  one  could  not  but  feel  an  indulgent 
friendliness  toward  whatsoever  rascality  sojourned  within. 
Perhaps  many  of  us  have  felt  the  kind  of  benevolent 
selfishness  that  is  disturbed  by  the  sight  of  discomfort 
among  others,  while  we  ourselves  are  in  the  enjoyment  of 
circumstances  especially  agreeable ;  and  so,  at  any  rate,  on 
this  occasion  the  dispensers  of  justice  in  the  town  of 
Narni  received  the  tribute  of  a  grateful  approval. 

When  the  sunset  of  this  long  June  day  was  over 
and  we  were  established  again  at  our  quiet  windows 
opposite  the  ilex  woods,  we  sat  silently  for  some  time 
listening  intently,  then  anxiously,  and  at  last  looking  at 
one  another  with  doubt  waxing  to  certainty.  Alas ! 
there  was  no  denying  it,  Narni  was  not  going  to  yield 
what  was  expected  of  it,  though  we  had  pinned  our  faith 
to  it, —  a  hope,  a  trust  that  had  been  so  often  disap- 
pointed and  postponed, — yet  surely  we  thought  to  be 
realized  here.  Had  not  Miss  Symonds,  in  her  delightful 
little  book  on  Perugia,  without  which  no  one  should 
travel  through  Umbria,  promised  that  here  dreams  and 
longings  should  become  realities  ?  We  began  to  feel 


THE   HEART    OF    UMBRIA  187 

injured.  Why  then  should  we,  humblest  and  most 
devoted  of  pilgrims,  be  singled  out  for  misfortune  ? 
Why,  hastening  as  it  were  with  ardent  desire  to  a  banquet 
of  the  gods,  must  we  alone  sit  down  at  bare  tables? 
We  were  almost  reduced  to  tears.  For  here,  here  in 
this  spot,  were  our  longing  ears  at  last  to  be  rewarded 
by  the  song  of  nightingales.  Nor  was  it  to  be  the 
slender  voice  of  a  single  bird,  but  the  affluence  of  num- 
bers, a  veritable  chorus  of  delicious  melody.  The  season, 
too,  was  the  beginning  of  June,  the  very  month  for 
nightingales,  and  the  place  the  heart  of  Italy. 

Was  it  then  a  hopeless  quest,  this  one  that  had  now 
lasted  almost  two  summers?  All  our  lives  we  had 
looked  forward  to  nightingales,  beginning  in  the  nursery 
where  they  abounded  in  our  fairy  tales,  and  on  through 
the  flowery  paths  of  poetic  romance  where  such  lavish 
use  of  them  was  made  as  to  mislead  one  into  thinking  that 
they  sang  all  the  year  round  utterly  regardless  of  autumn 
gales  or  winter  snows.  One  had  but  to  land  anywhere 
in  Southern  Europe  to  be  greeted  by  a  roundelay. 

So  even  on  the  rock  of  Gibraltar  we  were  prepared 
for  initiation  as  we  sat  upon  its  seaward  battlements  and 
listened  to  exciting  tales  of  smuggling,  keeping  at  the 
same  time  an  inner  consciousness  alert  for  the  faintest 
opening  twitter.  But  no,  hardly  here,  said  our  faithful 
courier,  reluctant  to  disappoint  us  in  anything  possible 
or  impossible ;  the  Alhambra,  there  now  was  the  place. 
Ah !  but  for  nightingales  there  must  be  old  Moorish 
gardens ;  they  went  together.  But  when  we  reached  the 
Alhambra  it  was  still  early  spring ;  the  elms  were  leafless. 
There  was  promise  ;  the  gardens  already  lay  warm  among 
green  shrubbery,  but  the  birds  were  silent.  However, 
it  was  not  to  be  regarded  as  non-fulfilment,  Zeno 
assured  us ;  if  they  failed  in  the  Alhambra  they  should 
not  in  Seville.  In  Seville  they  lifted  their  voices  in  one 


i88  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

grand  concert,  and  Zeno  pointed  upward,  waving  his 
hand  from  side  to  side  and  following  the  direction  with 
his  eyes,  which  expressed  things  unutterable.  But  at 
Seville,  where  was  no  lack  of  foliage,  the  nightingales 
were  yet  lacking,  and  we  left  Spanish  shores  still  pursuing 
them. 

After  this  did  we  not  sit  like  Lazarus  at  the  gate  of 
the  Queen's  garden  in  Athens,  when  darkness  had  set- 
tled down,  listening  in  vain  for  what  other  people 
declared  they  could  hear  there  any  night  ?  And  further, 
did  we  flag  in  our  search  as  we  advanced  through  Italy 
from  Paestum  to  Venice  ?  But  in  Venice  it  was  too  late 
in  the  season ;  expectation  must  be  put  aside ;  we  were 
intent  upon  other  things. 

One  night  we  stepped  into  our  gondola  as  usual  and 
bade  our  gondolier  take  us  wherever  he  chose.  We 
floated  for  a  while  on  the  lagoons  and  then  threading  cer- 
tain canals  came  on  our  return  into  the  Trovaso,one  of  our 
best-loved  ones.  Its  church  has  awidefondamenta  and  there 
are  tall  trees  beside  it  that  make  a  pleasant  flickering  shade. 
Within  in  a  retired  little  corner  chapel  there  is,  by  the  way, 
a  delightful  picture  quite  unique  in  its  way — San  Gio- 
vanni Grisogno  mounted  upon  a  white  horse.  The 
horse  in  beautiful  trappings  with  the  light  catching  the 
edges  of  his  polished  shoes  supports  the  young  saint 
armed  cap-a-pie  excepting  as  to  the  head  where  his  blond 
curls  have  only  the  protection  of  a  nimbus.  His  shield 
and  heavy  lance  look  warlike  enough,  but  he  wears  an 
expression  of  gentle  revery,  which  is  perfectly  reflected  in 
the  eyes  of  his  steed.  We  liked  to  pay  him  visits  when 
we  passed  in  the  daytime,  and  as  we  never  met  another 
votary  there  we  came  to  feel  a  sort  of  proprietorship  in  our 
young  saint. 

As  the  oars  slowed  here,  suddenly  a  long  melodious 
whistle  thrilled  the  night,  followed  by  a  shower  of  quicker 


THE    HEART    OF    UMBRIA  189 

notes,  so  gay,  so  delicious,  so  unshadowed  by  care,  that 
one's  heart  grew  light  in  the  mere  hearing. 

"  It  is  a  merle,"  said  one  whose  authority  we  did  not 
question.  "  But  where  can  it  be  ?  " 

Our  eyes  groped  for  it  on  either  side  of  the  scantily 
lighted  canal  and  at  last  traced  it  to  a  window  opposite 
us.  The  house,  long  and  low  for  Venice,  being  but  two 
stories  in  height,  stood  withdrawn  the  width  of  a  narrow 
fondamenta^  and  in  an  upper  window  we  could  distinguish 
the  dim  outline  of  a  cage,  and  presently  a  shadowy  form 
within  it,  moving  now  and  then  from  side  to  side, 
absorbed  in  the  sounds  it  was  pouring  forth.  From  the 
room  behind  it  a  faint  light  filtered  through,  just  suffi- 
cient to  let  us  see  so  much. 

Long  we  listened  and  enjoyed,  and  thereafter  at 
some  time  in  the  evening  we  were  apt  to  make  the  Tro- 
vaso  a  stopping-place,  and  our  bird  never  failed  us,  he 
seemed  untiring  as  he  "  piped  and  fluted  to  the  night," 
and  we  could  but  wonder  if  he  stopped  only  with  the 
dawn.  But  on  the  third  of  these  Arabian  nights  we 
carried  a  new  companion  in  the  gondola  who,  as  the 
merle  began  his  song  at  once  exclaimed : 

"  Merle  !     Why,  that  is  a  nightingale  !  " 

"A  nightingale  !  "  we  gasped,  gazing  at  one  another 
with  tumultuous  feelings. 

"  A  nightingale  at  last !  Can  it  be  possible  ?  " 
These  then  were  the  strains  so  long  waited  for  and  yet 
at  last  unrecognized.  And  why  did  they  fall  upon 
unrealizing  ears?  Because,  partly,  it  was  such  a  song 
of  pure  gladness.  Had  not  the  nightingale  been  called 
plaintive,  heart-moving,  the  interpreter  of  lovers  and  of 
the  night?  This  little  minstrel  had  known  the  joys  but 
not  the  pangs  of  love ;  had  heard  what  night  says  to  the 
blissful  but  not  to  the  tortured.  Melancholy  had  never 
been  an  inmate  of  his  soft  breast.  He  had  warbled  but 


190  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

to  cloudless,  star-sprinkled  skies  in  pure  ravishment  at 
his  own  music,  trilling  to  a  world  all  brightness  and 
felicity.  I  do  not  say  that  there  are  not  nightingales  and 
nightingales  in  the  world.  Who  knows  but  their  temper- 
aments may  be  as  diverse  as  our  own ;  but  this  was  our 
first  and  his  character  was  rounded  and  complete ;  des- 
pondency had  no  part  in  it. 

Yet  here  in  Narni  on  this  night  he  was  still  awaiting 
us  in  the  unforeshadowed  future.  From  behind  that 
dark  curtain  of  ilex  leaves  no  sound  came  forth. 
Silence  wrapped  the  moon-silvered  heights  and  brooded 
over  the  inky  depths  of  the  ravine  excepting  for  the 
murmurous  voice  of  the  Nar,  prattling  softly  to  itself 
as  it  made  its  way  toward  the  Umbrian  plain. 

ASSISI. 

"  Douce  melancolie  Ombrienne  —  ' ' 

—  BOURGET.     Impressions  d*  Italic. 

The  station  for  Assisi  lies  out  in  the  valley,  while 
the  town  itself  clambers  up  the  hills  upon  the  southern 
side.  The  little  omnibus  that  with  rather  inadequate 
horses  labors  across  the  plain  and  then  winds  back  and 
forth,  rising  till  it  reaches  the  compact  stony  streets,  set 
us  down  before  the  Hotel  Subasio,  unpretentious,  but 
comfortable  enough,  and  commanding  a  view  that  in 
itself  might  almost  afford  one  a  subsistence  were  the  fare 
less  substantial  than  it  is. 

We  arrived  late  in  the  afternoon  and  the  kindly 
landlord  at  once  informed  us  that  if  we  wished  to  step 
out  upon  the  piazza  close  by  we  could  see  a  religious 
ceremonial  then  in  progress.  We  therefore  took  our 
way  without  delay  in  the  direction  in  which  the  crowd 
was  tending,  and  a  few  moments  brought  us  out  upon 


THE    HEART    OF    UMBRIA  191 

the  Piazza  Saint  Francis.  The  church  of  Saint  Francis 
is  one  of  the  most  curious  and  interesting  in  the  world, 
being  in  reality  three  churches,  one  above  another,  partly 
built  against,  partly  embedded  in  a  stony  steep.  The 
lower  one  is  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock,  the  next  rests 
upon  it  and  is  half  supported  by  a  projecting  shelf. 
The  third  rises  above  all,  to  meet  a  broad  sweep  of  grass 
which  slopes  gradually  to  meet  its  portal. 

The  middle  church  is  the  oldest  and  most  beautiful 
and  opens  at  the  side  upon  a  piazza  partially  colonnaded. 
It  was  here  that  the  people  were  gathered,  a  moving 
crowd  falling  from  group  to  group  and  passing  in  and 
out  of  the  portal.  The  effect  was  that  of  a  shifting 
kaleidoscope  of  beautiful  colors  in  which  a  shade  of 
mustard-yellow  predominated,  worn  by  the  women  in 
kerchiefs  tied  over  their  heads,  but  every  variety  of 
yellow  was  represented,  as  well  as  other  brilliant  hues, 
and  there  was  a  fondness  for  a  pattern  of  gorgeous 
pink  roses  on  a  dark  background.  The  gowns  were 
almost  as  varied  as  the  kerchiefs.  Women  of  the 
upper  class  wore  them  of  the  ordinary  cut,  usually 
in  light  colors  with  a  black  lace  veil  over  the  head. 
One,  a  real  beauty,  stood  near  us  for  some  moments. 
Her  glossy  hair  and  her  red  lips  were  typically  Italian, 
but  cheeks  as  rosy  as  hers  are  not  so  often  seen  here. 
She  wore  a  rose-colored  gown  and  her  black  Spanish  lace 
veil  was  arranged  with  a  deliberate  grace.  There  had 
been  a  confirmation  in  the  morning  and  the  little  girls  were 
dressed  in  the  crispest  pink,  yellow  or  white  frocks,  with 
white  veils  fastened  over  their  curly  heads  with  artificial 
flowers.  They  carried  bells  made  of  terra-cotta  and  deco- 
rated in  red  and  white  patterns,  a  custom  for  that  festival. 

Presently  we  passed  into  the  church,  a  solemn, 
dimly-lighted  place,  low,  with  heavy  groining  and  short, 
ponderous  pillars,  somberly  rich  with  its  ancient  frescoes 


i92  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

and  sparely  lighted  by  windows  of  beautiful  old  stained 
glass.  Twilight  pervades  it  even  at  noonday.  At  the 
end,  which  looked  very  far  off,  the  organ  was  sounding 
and  many  lighted  candles  glimmered  out  of  the  obscurity. 
At  the  entrance  where  we  stood  daylight  fell  in  and 
lighted  up  the  ever-moving  multitude,  who  pressed  in, 
knelt  before  the  different  altars  and  then  remained  stand- 
ing or  passed  out  again.  We  waited,  watched  and  were 
never  tired.  But  at  last  all  the  moving  crowd  stood 
still,  solemn  chanting  began  and  the  procession,  with 
swinging  censers,  advanced  slowly  down  the  church; 
priests  in  their  richest  vestments  of  white,  gold  and 
crimson,  singers,  acolytes,  and  at  last,  under  a  canopy, 
their  precious  relic,  the  veil  of  the  Virgin.  All  the 
worshipers  sank  to  their  knees  as  it  passed  them.  A 
great  wave  of  feeling  seemed  to  surge  through  their  ranks ; 
and  it  was  irresistible,  we  knelt  with  the  rest,  and  could 
not  have  done  otherwise.  Slowly  out  of  the  church 
it  went,  and  then  all  the  people  rose  and  followed  after. 

It  traversed  the  lower  piazza,  and  mounting  the 
street  beyond  till  it  was  on  a  level  with  the  upper 
church,  turned  and  came  back  over  the  grassy  expanse 
before  the  entrance.  Here  all  the  people  stood  still 
again,  while  the  ecclesiastics  went  on  into  the  church  and 
after  a  little  appeared  again  in  an  open  loggia  above, 
which  was  hung  with  costly  tapestry.  And  here,  when 
the  relics  came  into  view  anew  and  were  raised  above  the 
sill,  the  people  all  knelt  again  and  the  service  proceeded. 
At  certain  points  a  low,  deep  murmur  rose  from  the 
crowd:  the  responses.  It  was  like  the  wind  through  tall 
trees,  not  a  word  audible  —  only  a  low-toned,  mighty 
sound  that  thrilled  through  one,  most  impressive,  most 
touching. 

At  last  it  was  over  and  the  concourse  of  people 
began  to  stream  away,  many  of  them  having  come  from 


THE    HEART    OF    UMBRIA  193 

a  long  distance.  We  leaned  over  the  stone  parapet  of 
the  upper  piazza  and  were  speculating  upon  the  meaning 
of  some  things  we  had  just  seen  when  a  pleasant  voice 
behind  us  asked, 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?     I  live  in  Assisi.' 

We  turned  to  see  the  attractive  face  of  a  girl  of 
perhaps  twenty-five,  who  smilingly  offered  to  satisfy  our 
curiosity  with  any  explanations  we  desired.  We  at  once 
fell  into  talk  and  she  presently  told  us  that  she  was 
English  (which  we  had  recognized)  and  that  her  husband 
was  a  native  of  Assisi,  where  she  had  lived  since  her 
marriage. 

"It  is  a  treat  to  me  to  be  able  to  speak  English 
again.  I  have  hardly  spoken  it  for  two  years,"  she  added, 
as  we  walked  away  together.  She  constituted  herself  our 
guide  and  with  her  we  strolled  from  place  to  place,  visited 
the  churches,  lingered  to  enjoy  the  views  from  higher 
and  higher  points  and  finished  the  afternoon  in  her  own 
little  home,  which  she  laughingly  offered  as  a  final  interest 
for  sight-seers. 

Like  all  the  quartierini  of  Assisi  it  was  entered  by  a 
door  opening  directly  upon  the  pavement,  in  the  even 
frontage  of  gray  stone  buildings  that  marches  up  the  hilly 
streets.  A  red-tiled  staircase  led  up  to  the  primo  piano, 
where  a  little  drawing-room,  also  with  tiled  floor,  was 
made  homelike  by  a  piano,  a  glass  cupboard  of  silver  and 
some  books  and  pictures.  All  the  light  came  from  one 
large  window  set  high  in  the  wall  and  reached  by  three 
steps  which  led  up  from  the  floor.  A  sunny  dining-room 
opened  beyond,  yet  the  most  interesting  apartment  was 
the  kitchen,  where  the  place  of  the  prosaic  cooking-stove 
was  taken  by  an  impressive  altar,  fit  for  sacrifice.  A 
bonnet-like  roof  projected  above,  to  lure  the  smoke  of 
burnt  offerings  to  the  chimney,  no  doubt,  and  all  about 
the  walls  hung  copper  utensils  of  such  graceful  shapes 


i94  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

that  the  thought  of  using  them  for  merely  culinary  pur- 
poses presented  itself  as  almost  desecrating. 

But  best  of  all,  and  a  flight  above  the  rest,  there  was 
a  refuge  for  warm  evenings,  an  open  loggia  large  enough 
to  take  tea  in  and  at  the  same  time  look  down  upon 
Assisi,  descending  street  below  street  toward  the  wide- 
spreading  plain  reaching  away  to  more  distant  hills.  Our 
hostess,  whose  kindly  hospitality  was  not  yet  tired, 
walked  back  with  us  to  our  hotel.  As  we  went  she 
confessed  that  she  found  little  companionship  among  the 
dwellers  in  Assisi. 

"  But/*  she  added,  "  I  have  my  baby  now,  so  I  need 
nothing  more." 

With  her  husband,  her  baby  and  her  books  she  pro- 
fessed herself  entirely  contented,  and  her  looks  went  far 
to  prove  the  success  of  at  least  one  international  alliance. 

On  the  way  we  met  two  sweet-looking  elderly  nuns, 
friends  of  our  companion,  and  after  a  few  moments  of 
talk  they  in  the  most  friendly  way  invited  us  to  enter 
their  convent  which  was  close  by,  where  in  a  little  parlor 
to  which  we  were  shown  they  treated  us  to  rosolio  and 
strange  little  cakes,  made  in  curiously  elaborate  form  and 
strongly  tinctured  with  anise.  It  appears  that  rosolio 
may  be  of  different  colors.  Till  this  time  we  had  seen  it 
only  pink  as  the  pinkest  roses  and  redolent  of  their  fra- 
grance, but  this  liqueur  was  as  deep  in  color  as  a  Jacque- 
minot and  with  a  little  spice  added  to  its  rosy  flavor. 

The  next  morning  we  again  joined  our  friend,  to 
explore  Assisi  and  the  suburbs  beyond  its  walls.  At  one 
point  we  passed  a  public  fountain  where  women  were 
gathered  to  wash  and  stopped  to  watch  them  for  a  while. 
Animated  was  the  chatter  and  loud  the  laughter  pro- 
ceeding therefrom,  and  our  Signora  remarked : 

"This  is  the  great  gossiping  centre  of  the  town, 
All  scandal  begins  here ! " 


THE    HEART    OF   UMBRIA  195 

Under  a  roof  supported  on  pillars  are  two  great 
stone  tanks,  one  for  washing  and  the  other  for  rinsing. 
On  the  slanting  stone  rim  of  the  tank  they  spread  out 
the  garments  and  soap  them  thoroughly ;  they  next  go 
through  a  process  of  pressing,  squeezing  and  sometimes 
beating,  but  never  rubbing.  Then  wet,  full  of  soap  and 
heavy  as  lead  they  are  packed  into  a  basket  and  carried 
home  on  the  head,  up  many  a  precipitous  incline  and 
flight  of  steep  stairs.  Arrived  at  home  the  clothes  are 
put  into  a  great  earthenware  tub,  but  first  carefully  sorted 
and  the  garments  of  the  women  and  children  placed 
below  with  those  of  the  men  above,  otherwise  the  owners 
would  suffer  terrible  aches  and  pains.  Over  all  a  coarse 
cloth  is  laid  and  upon  it  a  layer  of  wood  ashes,  then  tepid 
water  is  poured  on  and  next  boiling  water,  after  which 
all  is  covered  over  and  left  to  stand  all  night.  In  the 
morning  the  heavy  burden  is  again  carried  down  to  the 
rinsing  basin  and  eventually  the  clothes  are  delivered 
rough  dry.  The  final  operations  of  starching  and  ironing 
are  done  at  home  and  even  women  who  are  well-to-do 
learn  to  perform  these  for  themselves. 

The  cheapness  of  living  in  Assisi  is  a  marvel.  On 
seven  lire  a  day  (a  dollar  and  forty  cents)  a  family  of 
three  may  live  like  princes,  so  says  our  little  friend, 
illustrating  it  in  her  own  menage.  They  keep,  she  tells 
us,  a  maid-servant,  and  a  man  comes  in  each  day  to  do 
the  rougher  work.  The  wages  of  a  man-servant  is  two 
dollars  a  month  and  that  of  a  woman  a  dollar  and  forty 
cents.  They  have  a  horse  and  vehicle  for  driving  about 
and  the  rent  of  their  apartment  is  twenty-five  dollars  a 
year.  Some  idea  of  the  cost  of  provisions  may  be  gained 
when  it  is  known  that  eggs  are  about  six  cents  the  dozen 
and  green  peas  two  cents  the  pound. 

Meals  are  arranged  as  follows.  Coffee  is  taken  in 
bed  at  about  seven  in  the  morning.  It  may  be  interesting 


196  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

to  note  here  that  in  Assisi  this  beverage  is  looked  upon 
as  a  panacea.  If  symptoms  of  illness  appear  there  is  no 
painful  uncertainty  as  to  the  proper  means  to  avail  oneself 
of.  Consign  the  patient  to  bed  at  once  and  administer 
cup  after  cup  of  strong  coffee.  This  will  in  the  end 
vanquish  any  disease. 

At  eight  o'clock  there  is  an  informal  meal  called 
"  the  standing  breakfast,"  when  something  substantial 
like  eggs  or  ham  is  served,  and  at  twelve  comes  colazloney 
the  first  important  repast,  of  which  the  courses  are  apt  to 
be  soup,  macaroni,  and  a  dish  of  meat  perhaps,  of  course 
accompanied  by  bread  and  wine.  Instead  of  afternoon 
tea,  at  four  o'clock  a  glass  of  wine  is  taken,  and  dinner 
comes  at  half  past  eight,  when  perhaps  there  may  be 
roasted  kid  and  salad  as  features  of  the  repast,  all  of 
which  goes  to  show  that  living  cheaply  in  Assisi  does  not 
mean  living  poorly ;  and  when  it  is  added  that  we  saw  a 
pretty  and  well-fitting  gown  for  the  making  of  which  the 
dressmaker's  charge  was  eighty  cents,  little  remains  to  be 
added ! 

And  why  could  not  a  worse  fate  overtake  one  than 
to  live  long  in  gentle  Assisi,  to  listen  to  the  organ  and 
ponder  over  the  faded  frescoes  in  its  dim  churches,  to 
climb  the  mountains  at  its  back  and  tarry  at  their  hidden 
villages  and  monasteries,  to  sit  at  evening  in  the  high 
arch  of  some  ancient  window  and  gaze  out  over  the  quiet 
beauty  of  this  Umbrian  landscape,  where  the  loving  spirit 
of  Saint  Francis  seems  to  hover  and  his  peace  to  have 
settled  upon  the  veiled  distances  of  the  plain  ? 

PERUGIA. 

"Memento,  homo,  quia  pulvis  es,  et  in  pulverem  reverteris." 

From  Assisi  to  Perugia  the  drive  is  but  two  or  three 
hours  and  in  the  late  afternoon  nothing  can  be  sweeter 


THE    HEART    OF   UMBRIA  197 

than  to  cross  that  part  of  the  Umbrian  plain  which  sepa- 
rates them  and  then  take  the  long,  gently  winding  climb 
that  brings  one  up  to  the  hilltops  of  Perugia;  for  the 
city  clambers  out  upon  various  diverging  ridges  and  dips 
down,  filling  the  gaps  between,  all  with  a  special  individu- 
ality and  character  of  its  own,  while  once  within  its  walls 
no  one  may  resist  its  charm.  < 

Few  things  are  more  futile  than  to  draw  compari- 
sons,—  indeed,  there  is  a  species  of  ingratitude  in  it, — 
yet  one  is  almost  tempted  to  say  there  is  nothing  more 
beautiful  and  satisfying  than  the  outlooks  *  from  Perugia. 
Perfectly  placed  for  the  perspective  of  the  Umbrian 
plain,  through  which  the  Tiber  flows  toward  Rome, 
both  valley  and  mounting  heights  are  dotted  with  little 
towns,  each  one  of  which,  besides  its  picturesqueness  of 
situation  and  beauty  of  architecture,  has  its  own  history 
that  would  yield  a  succession  of  incidents  beyond  the 
invention  of  the  imagination,  while  above  and  beyond 
all  are  the  everlasting  mountains,  peaks  only  to  name 
which  is  to  stir  the  memory  with  poetry  and  romance. 

As  for  the  city  itself,  its  exterior  is  a  perfect  and 
satisfying  bit  of  antiquity  preserved  for  us  to  the  present 
day,  and  as  for  its  soul,  its  past — what  could  it  not 
confide  to  us  if  it  chose  to  speak,  to  open  its  lips  but 
once  in  answer  to  the  questions  one  longs  to  besiege  it 
with  ?  Think  of  being  able  to  look  upon  part  of  the 
massive  wall  built  by  the  Etruscans, — those  mysterious 
people  who  faded  away  before  the  power  of  the  Romans, — 
and  to  follow  the  same  walls  as  they  were  carried  higher 
by  the  Romans  themselves.  Next  came  the  Italians, — 
those  giants  of  the  Middle  Ages, —  who  finished  them 
and  then  fought  and  rioted  within  them  and  lived  a  life 
of  magnificence  and  luxury  and  savagery  at  the  same 
time. 

Standing  in   the  piazza,  one   of  the   finest  in  the 


198  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

world,  one  notices  bristling  from  the  wall  of  the  old 
municipal  palace  the  spikes  upon  which  were  spitted  the 
gory  heads  of  traitors,  or  rather  of  the  enemies  of  him 
who  happened  to  be  uppermost,  and  side  by  side  with 
them  the  beautiful  wrought-iron  supports  that  held  the 
rich  draperies  and  embroideries  that  used  to  make  the 
city  glorious  with  color  on  festival  occasions.  Opposite, 
the  cathedral  looks  down  as  gravely  and  immovably  as 
though  its  floor  and  steps  had  not  once  poured  with  the 
blood  of  a  murdered  family,  when  thirty  bodies  of  its 
members,  splendid,  stalwart  youths,  were  borne  forth 
and  laid  before  it  after  one  slaughter.  The  whole  church 
had  to  be  bathed  in  wine  and  reconsecrated  before  mass 
could  again  be  said  in  it. 

Those  were  great  days,  and  this  Baglioni  family  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  in  all  history.  Matarazzo, 
the  dear  old  chronicler  who  lived  among  them  and  wrote 
of  them,  though  horrified  at  their  excesses,  cannot 
withhold  his  admiration  of  them.  They  were  as  beau- 
tiful as  angels  of  light,  he  says,  so  magnificent  were  they 
in  form  and  feature,  so  noble  in  mien  and  strength. 
No  one  but  the  ancient  Greeks  could  compare  with 
them,  and  yet  their  hands  were  ever  against  one 
another  —  ever  dyed  in  one  another's  blood.  They 
made  the  annals  of  Perugia  for  a  time,  and  turbulent 
annals  they  are,  exciting  to  peruse,  incredible  to  contem- 
plate. 

Walking  in  Perugia  one  is  ever  ascending  or 
descending.  Indeed,  the  pavement  of  some  of  the 
narrower  streets  is  a  series  of  shallow  steps.  In  those 
somewhat  wider  one  often  meets  a  pair  of  sleek,  white 
oxen  taking  up  with  their  load  nearly  the  width  of 
the  thoroughfare,  and  seeming  to  bring  into  the  hoary 
city  the  breath  of  sweet  pastoral  fields,  renewed  with 
immortal  freshness  each  June  such  as  this.  Then  it  is 


THEHEARTOFUMBRIA  199 

interesting  to  dive  under  an  archway  and  pitch  down  a 
steep  vicolo  to  the  lowest  level  of  the  city,  gazing  up  at 
the  beautiful  old  houses  that  crowd  together  and  look 
over  one  another's  shoulders  above ;  or  to  clamber  up  a 
narrow  way,  turning  now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left, 
to  arrive  at  some  point  of  vantage  for  a  view,  some 
building  that  holds  a  hidden  treasure. 

Passing  down  the  principal  street  one  steps  into  the 
Collegio  del  Cambio  to  sit  for  a  while  before  Perugino's 
beautiful  frescoes,  to  which  one's  attention  is  called  by 
the  following  illuminating  notice  in  a  window  near  by,  for 
the  instruction  of  English-speaking  travelers. 

"Since  the  first  January,  1899,  every  visitor  of  the 
halls  of  the  noble  Cambio  shall  purvey  himself  with  a 
thicket.  Thickets  are  to  be  bought  from  Professor  Sever- 
ini's  apothecary's  shops  in  Corso  Vannice,  near  the  halls 
of  Cambio." 

A  diverting  collection  might  be  made  of  these 
ingenuous  advertisements,  intended  to  be  colloquial  and 
attractive  to  strangers  far  from  home.  Such  was  a  notice 
at  the  door  of  a  restaurant  the  other  day,  cc  Hox  Stail 
Soup."  Who  could  mistake  what  savory  fare  was  here 
indicated? 

There  was  also  another,  interesting  for  its  delicacy 
of  suggestion, 

"  Messieurs  les  voyageurs  se  levant 
t6t,  sont  pries  de  faire  doucement." 

Verily,  how  many  times,  in  hotels  of  all  nationalities, 
have  I  not  longed  that  those  who  rose  and  departed 
early,  slamming  doors  and  shouting  in  the  corridors, 
would  but  be  willing  to  "  faire  doucement."  And  with 
the  petition  couched  in  such  gentle  and  appealing  phrase- 
ology, who  would  not  be  moved? 

Or  here  is  another  in  a  hotel  bedroom,  which  con- 


200  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

veys  information  in  such  a  casual  manner  as  not  to  irritate 
the  most  sensitive : 

"We  observe  that  when  the  stove  is  heated  the 
price  of  a  room  is  dayly  and  personally  augmented  by 
fifty  centesimi" 

In  strolling  one  afternoon  in  the  direction  of  the 
Oratorio  of  San  Bernardino,  whose  charming  pink  and 
blue  facade  with  its  musical  angels  forms  a  delightful 
study,  my  two  companions  fell  into  the  trap  of  a  dealer 
in  antiquities,  whose  personality  alone  was  sufficient  to 
excuse  the  defeat  they  later  confessed  to  having  suffered 
at  his  hands.  He  was  tall,  with  beautiful  dark  eyes,  a 
high  pale  brow,  long  slender  hands,  and  an  air  of  pen- 
sive seriousness,  and  wore  a  becoming  tasseled  cap  of 
oriental  colors.  It  was  difficult  to  decide  whether  he  was 
an  impoverished  descendant  of  one  of  the  mediaeval 
Perugian  families,  or  (if  one  glanced  at  his  profile)  an 
Italian  with  an  admixture  of  that  blood  so  much  older 
even  than  that  of  the  Baglioni.  His  chambers,  to  which 
one  ascended  by  a  long  flight  of  stairs,  were  stuffed  with 
the  wreckage  of  the  aristocratic  houses  of  the  vicinity, 
according  to  his  quietly  convincing  asseverations.  His 
prices  were  high  enough  to  befit  treasures  whose  asso- 
ciations alone  were  almost  priceless,  and  I  soon  strayed 
away  and  waited  below  in  the  quietude  of  a  little  piazza 
bracketed  above  the  next  range  of  closely-packed  houses. 

Sitting  upon  the  parapet  here  one  may  enjoy  one  of 
the  many  beautiful  views  that  Perugia  affords,  for  the 
advantages  of  its  position  make  it  full  of  surprises  and 
of  unexpected  outlooks.  After  gazing  long  into  the  dis- 
tance my  eye  came  back  to  rest  upon  nearer  objects,  and 
I  found  myself  in  close  proximity  to  an  open  window 
upon  the  upper  floor  of  a  house  whose  foundation  was 
far  below  me,  in  the  abrupt  descent  of  the  ground  at  this 
point.  The  little  room  which  it  showed  was  empty  and 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THEHEARTOFUMBRIA  201 

I  dared  to  make  myself  at  home  in  it  for  a  moment,  it 
was  so  inviting  and  spoke  so  plainly  the  character  of  its 
occupant.  A  white  curtain  waved  to  and  fro  at  the  case- 
ment, within  was  a  narrow  iron  bedstead,  also  covered 
with  pure  white,  and  there  was  little  other  furniture 
excepting  a  dressing-case,  stern  in  its  simplicity,  and  a 
round-topped  table  drawn  up  beside  the  window. 

Here,  however,  the  spirit  of  the  place  centred. 
There  were  many  books  upon  it,  heaped  up  as  though 
they  had  lately  been  consulted,  some  old  and  vellum- 
bound,  others  newer;  and  certain  of  them  had  been  piled 
together  to  form  a  support  for  one  volume  standing  open 
against  them  at  a  convenient  slant.  In  front,  spread  out 
flat  upon  the  table,  lay  a  manuscript,  the  pen  dropped 
beside  it.  A  chair  pushed  a  little  back  looked  as  though 
that  moment  quitted.  It  was  the  room  of  a  student,  and 
though  he  did  not  return  while  I  trespassed  upon  his 
solitude  I  felt  his  presence  there.  I  could  see  him  bend 
over  his  paper  for  a  while,  writing  rapidly,  then  pull  a 
volume  toward  him  and  search  for  a  passage  that  he 
needed,  and  then  perhaps  lean  back  in  his  chair  with  a 
sigh  and  let  his  eyes  stray  out  of  the  window  and  rest 
upon  the  beauty  that  was  his  own  possession  as  truly  as 
the  ascetic  emptiness  of  his  quiet  room.  The  swaying 
top  of  a  tree  reached  up  out  of  a  cleft  between  two  near 
buildings,  and  beyond  were  the  sun-warmed  corrugations 
of  the  brown  ranks  of  houses  mounting  upward  or  falling 
away  below  on  either  hand,  with  all  their  charming  irreg- 
ularity and  antiquity,  while  further  still  was  the  perspec- 
tive of  open  country  and  cloud-flecked  sky :  a  glimpse  of 
Tuscany,  loveliest  of  Italian  provinces. 

I  knew  not  whether  he  was  young  and  ardent,  with 
dreams  of  some  time  grasping  fame  and  compelling  the 
world  with  the  children  of  his  brain,  or  old  and  placid, 
carrying  out  some  train  of  research,  slowly,  painstak- 


202  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

ingly,  for  the  pure  love  of  it.  But  I  wished  him  well, 
there  was  sympathy  in  my  heart  for  him,  and  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  reluctance  in  turning  away. 

On  the  way  home  it  appeared  to  harmonize  with  the 
slightly  subdued  air  of  my  two  companions  that  we 
should  devote  ourselves  to  a  search  for  the  doors  of 
death,  those  curious  adjuncts  to  the  entrance  of  a  Peru- 
gian  palazzo.  Beside  the  broad  opening  of  the  main 
portal  was  a  tall,  narrow  arch,  a  doorway  for  the  dead 
alone ;  the  living  never  passed  it.  From  it  the  coffin  was 
borne  forth  when  a  member  of  the  family  died,  and  in 
the  next  moment  the  door  was  securely  barred,  lest  the 
angel  of  death  who  waited  to  enter  where  he  had  once 
come  out  should  repass  the  threshold  and  claim  another 
victim.  These  doors  are  now  walled  up,  but  a  careful 
scrutiny  shows  the  outline  of  them  still,  the  heavy  stones 
of  the  arch  at  the  top  being  most  easily  discerned. 

For  whatever  reason,  the  thoughts  of  the  Perugians 
seem  to  have  been  much  occupied  with  the  contempla- 
tion of  mortality — "  Pulvis  et  umbra  sumus,"  they  must 
have  kept  in  mind  even  when  concerned  with  objects  of 
as  light  a  character  as  sweetmeats ;  for  about  Christmas 
time  they  compound  a  kind  of  dolce  which  goes  by  the 
gruesome  name  of  dead  men's  bones,  and  there  is  also 
a  small  biscuit  made  of  bean  flour  and  called  the 
cake  of  the  dead.  The  latter  has  a  special  significance, 
for  it  is  supposed  to  be  connected  with  the  funeral  rites 
of  the  Etruscans,  and  many  usages  of  Perugia  with 
regard  to  the  dead  are  strange  and  interesting.  A  corpse 
must  still  be  buried  at  night,  according  to  the  mediaeval 
custom,  and  the  graves  of  the  dead  are  illuminated  once 
a  year,  when  a  requiem  mass  is  sung  for  the  souls  of 
those  who  have  passed  away.  But  the  Perugians  some- 
times have  other  than  lugubrious  associations  with  the 
transit  from  this  life  to  the  next,  for  once  a  year  there  is 


THEHEARTOFUMBRIA  203 

a  festa,  including  a  cattle  fair,  called  the  Feast  of  the 
Dead,  which  is  said  to  be  a  time  of  great  rejoicing. 

One  could  talk  endlessly  about  Perugia,  its  delights 
are  so  many  and  so  various.  Its  walks  and  its  views 
never  tire,  there  is  some  discovery  to  be  made  each  day, 
a  beautiful  building  overlooked  before,  a  new  route  lead- 
ing to  an  unfamiliar  vista,  an  exquisite  detail  of  architec- 
ture,—  all  so  persuasive,  so  attaching,  that  one's  heart  fails 
at  the  thought  of  ever  turning  one's  back  upon  it  all. 

Then  there  is  the  picture  gallery,  unique  in  its  possi- 
bilities for  studying  certain  masters.  Where  else  can  one 
so  revel  in  Fiorenzo  di  Lorenzo's  enchanting  little  figures, 
his  decorous  old  saints,  his  nobles  in  fur  and  embroidery, 
his  exquisite  dainty  youths,  like  slim,  beautiful  girls  mas- 
querading? Or  Bonfigli's  delicious  singing  angels,  more 
elaborately  dressed  and  more  carefully  curled  than  ever 
were  angels  before,  with  their  halos  adjusted  so  becom- 
ingly over  their  double  wreaths  of  roses,  yet  with  faces  the 
most  innocent  and  artless  in  the  world,  their  whole  being 
intent  upon  the  instruments  they  play,  and  the  song  they 
are  pouring  forth. 

Beyond  the  city  walls  we  may  drop  any  day  to  the 
plain  below  and  find  each  time  some  fresh  and  entertain- 
ing excursion.  We  may  encounter  the  icy  chill  of  the 
Etruscan  tombs  if  we  will,  and  contemplate  those  calm, 
unperturbed  beings  as  they  recline  upon  their  sarcoph- 
agus lids,  with  the  same  fixed  but  unseeing  gaze  that 
they  have  worn  for  thousands  of  years.  Or  we  may  fol- 
low Childe  Harold  to  the  beautiful  little  Roman  Temple 
of  Clitumnus,  and  rest  beside  the  gentle  river  that  flows 
below  it.  Or  there  are  cities  of  the  plain,  like  Foligno, 
and  old  monasteries  hidden  among  the  mountains  where 
if  you  would  carry  pleasure  with  you  it  is  well  to  take  an 
offering  of  coffee  to  the  monks,  keenly  relished  by  them 
but  rarely  enjoyed. 


204  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

And  so  one  might  prolong  the  catalogue  indefinitely. 
In  fact,  a  whole  book  could  be  written  and  called  The 
Pleasures  of  Perugia ;  nor  can  one  say  that  such  a  book 
does  not  really  exist  in  Miss  Symonds'  charming  little 
volume,  where  she  dwells  so  fondly  and  with  such  knowl- 
edge on  the  attractions  of  Augusta  Perusia. 

LAKE    TRASIMENO. 

While  at  Perugia  one  may  give  a  day  to  Lake 
Trasimeno  and  by  starting  early  have  some  hours  there. 
The  broken  and  undulating  country  between  is  sweet  in 
spring  with  hay  and  wild  flowers,  and  to  the  banks  beside 
the  road  cling  masses  of  pink  and  white  cistus  and  wafts 
of  fragrance  float  toward  one  that  entice  the  wayfarer  to 
desert  the  carriage,  and  leaving  it  to  creep  behind  or  wait 
at  some  point  in  advance,  make  excursions  into  fields 
carpeted  with  color. 

Then  it  is  hard  to  pass  the  rambling  stone  farm- 
houses with  irregular  tiled  roofs  and  pictorial  windows 
looking  out  over  their  nestling  circular  hay-stacks,  their 
blossoming  fruit-trees  and  their  patches  of  garden  vege- 
tables ;  and  if  in  response  to  appreciative  glances  any 
hospitable  invitation  comes  from  behind  a  dividing 
hedge  there  is  the  temptation  to  waste  time  within 
admiring  and  chatting.  Such  easy  intercourse  is  much 
taken  for  granted  here  and  the  simple  good  breeding  of 
the  peasantry  frees  it  from  all  embarrassment. 

When  at  last  Lake  Trasimeno  comes  in  sight  it  lies 
far  below  the  carriage  road,  its  still  surface  spreading 
away  for  miles  between  the  grassy  or  olive-clad  shores 
that  softly  recede  and  then  rise  into  gentle  rolling  hills. 
Quietness  broods  over  it ;  still  contemplation  has  marked 
it  for  her  own.  A  lonely  fishing-boat  or  two  rest  indo- 
lently upon  its  glassy  pale-blue  floor,  and  to  break  in 


THEHEARTOFUMBRIA  205 

upon  its  listless  abstraction  seems  vulgarly  importunate. 
It  has  forgotten  its  past.  It  remembers  not  that  here 
Hannibal's  great  victory  shook  the  Roman  power  in  Italy  ; 
that  in  the  hours  of  slaughter  that  accompanied  it  the 
vibrating  air  was  torn  by  shrieks  and  groans ;  that  the 
innocent  little  brook,  which  is  still  called  Sanguinetto, 
poured  a  stream  of  gore  into  its  clear  depths.  All 
these  things  are  unreal  and  unheeded.  Trasimeno  lies 
idly  dreaming. 

But  one  descends  and  approaches  by  gradual  stages, 
and  familiarity  yields  the  courage  to  break  in  upon  its 
reserve.  Following  the  shore  for  a  while  one  comes  at 
length  to  the  village  of  Passignano,  with  a  handful  of 
houses  and  an  inn  that  stands  but  a  stone's  throw  from 
the  water.  We  had  not  been  sure  that  anything  sub- 
stantial in  the  way  of  luncheon  could  be  found  here,  and 
so  had  provided  ourselves  with  something,  but  the  little 
hostelry  invited  us  to  remember  that  on  the  banks  of 
Trasimeno,  if  ever,  it  was  appropriate  to  partake  of 
lasche,  that  fish  which  so  often  appears  in  the  writings  of 
the  old  Umbrian  chroniclers.  The  Perugians,  it  seems, 
were  inordinately  fond  of  it,  and,  indeed,  laid  so  much 
stress  upon  it  as  to  awaken  the  suspicion  that  they  were 
a  somewhat  greedy  folk.  The  landlady  declared  herself 
equal  to  providing  them  in  a  very  brief  space  of  time, 
together  with  the  wine  of  the  countryside,  which  she 
recommended.  So  we  mounted  a  short  flight  of  stairs 
and  found  a  small  dining-room  with  low,  broad  windows 
commanding  the  lake,  pleasant  to  rest  and  lounge  in. 

Presently  we  became  interested  in  the  preparations 
for  our  meal,  and  observed  with  some  surprise  that  the 
napkins  were  handsomely  embroidered.  When  the 
las c he  made  their  appearance  they  proved  to  be  unex- 
pectedly minute,  the  dish  containing  a  heap  of  scores  of 
the  slim,  crisp  morsels,  hardly  two  inches  in  length.  Our 


206  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

own  supplies  were  added,  the  wine  was  brought  forth,  and 
we  sat  down  to  the  table  drawn  near  the  open  windows. 
Opposite  the  windows  and  between  us  and  the  lake  ran 
a  stone  wall,  and  upon  the  top  of  this  in  an  irregular  row 
sat  a  number  of  interested  little  boys,  as  at  a  theatrical 
representation.  They  were  all  alive  as  to  what  was 
going  on  in  the  dining-room,  but  I  much  fear  that  even 
spectacularly  this  Barmecide  feast  was  a  failure,  as,  when 
the  banquet  was  fairly  in  progress,  not  much  more  than 
the  tops  of  the  strangers'  heads  could  have  been  visible. 
The  wine  was  pronounced  good ;  the  lasche  met  with  a 
less  ready  acceptance.  They  are  probably  more  or  less 
of  an  acquired  taste ;  at  any  rate,  they  have  an  odd  trace 
of  bitter  in  their  otherwise  savory  flavor. 

When  colazione  was  quite  over  it  was  made  known 
that  the  Signore  desired  to  go  out  upon  the  lake,  and  in 
a  few  moments  two  boatmen  stood  below  the  window 
with  the  assurance  that  they  were  at  our  service.  Had 
they  a  good  boat?  Assuredly  they  had,  of  the  most 
superior.  What  would  be  the  price  per  hour?  Three 
lire,  no  less.  Three  lire  was  quite  too  much,  the  ladies 
would  pay  but  two. 

"  Very  well,  then,  Signore,"  with  cheerful  prompt- 
ness, "certainly,  two  lire  shall  be  the  price." 

We  proceeded  with  more  or  less  of  an  attendant 
following  to  the  embarking  place,  a  convenient  group  of 
low  rocks,  but  the  boat  at  first  gave  us  pause.  It  was  a 
rough  fishing-craft,  not  over  clean  and  with  more  or  less 
water  in  the  bottom.  It  looked  as  though  it  might  easily 
let  in  more  when  too  far  from  land.  We  hesitated,  but 
the  reassurances  of  our  men  were  vociferous.  It  was  the 
only  boat  to  be  had  and  its  qualities  were  all  that  could 
be  required.  As  for  safety,  oh,  of  the  most  absolute, 
and  for  cleanliness,  why  a  few  boards  in  the  bottom  would 
make  all  perfect!  We  were  persuaded,  and  after  the 


THEHEARTOFUMBRIA  207 

preparations  were  completed  stepped  in  a  little  gingerly. 
Once  seated,  however,  the  boat  pushed  off  easily,  we 
found  ourselves  unexpectedly  comfortable  and  forgot  all 
but  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  place,  the  balmy  air,  the 
pleasant  dip  of  the  oars,  the  wooded  nests  of  islands  in 
the  distance  that  were  our  goal. 

For  a  few  minutes  our  rowers  propelled  their  craft 
silently,  standing  one  at  the  prow  and  one  at  the  stern. 
They  were  barefooted,  weatherbeaten  old  fellows,  and  at 
a  guess  wore  no  more  than  two  garments  apiece,  not 
including  their  battered  hats.  They  showed  no  promise 
of  a  soul  above  the  lire  they  were  gaining,  no  thought 
beyond  the  satisfaction  of  food  and  slumber.  We  were 
yet  to  know  them.  At  last  one  of  them  ventured  a 
question  as  to  the  nationality  of  their  passengers;  the 
ladies,  no  doubt,  were  English.  We  explained  that  the 
ladies  were  from  America.  America!  they  had  heard 
often  of  America.  Many  Italians  went  there.  It 
was  a  land  very  far  away.  They  would  like  to  know 
how  it  was  governed ;  had  we  a  king  like  theirs  ?  We 
began  to  elucidate,  they  followed  with  eager  attention. 
They  nodded  at  one  another,  they  muttered  excla- 
mations, they  plied  us  with  intelligent  queries,  and 
their  interest  waxed  from  moment  to  moment.  They 
rebuked  one  another  if  either  disapproved  of  the  other's 
form  of  inquiry. 

"  Dio  mio!  why  do  you  ask  the  Signorina  such  a 
fool  question  ?  How  do  you  expect  her  to  understand  ? " 

They  put  us  through  a  category  of  demands  in 
regard  to  daily  life  in  our  country,  rents,  occupations, 
prices  of  food,  etc.,  and  listened  with  profound  attention 
to  the  replies  given  them. 

We  were  in  the  full  tide  of  conversation  when  we 
reached  the  largest  of  the  islands  we  wished  to  land  upon, 
and  our  dear  old  men  were  somewhat  disappointed  that 


zo8  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

we  were  not  anxious  to  visit  the  important  end,  where 
there  was  a  monastery,  besides  the  villa  of  a  gracious 
countess  whom  they  praised  unstintedly.  She  was  good, 
she  was  liberality  itself.  Why,  figure  to  yourself!  she 
never  gave  less  than  a  lira  for  buonamano  when  they  rowed 
her  across  the  lake !  But  we  explained  that  we  wished  to 
disembark  where  the  fisher  folk  lived ;  so  skirting  the 
shore  to  the  opposite  extremity  we  stepped  off  upon  a 
shelf  of  rock  and  giving  our  boatmen  something  for 
wine,  which  they  could  occupy  themselves  in  consuming 
while  we  strolled  about,  we  walked  down  between  the  two 
straggling  rows  of  houses  occupied  by  the  dwellers  on 
I  sola  Maggiore. 

To  call  them  straggling,  however,  is  only  to  inti- 
mate that  they  were  not  built  in  solid  ranks  but  more  or 
less  irregularly  and  with  spaces  between,  for  they  were  as 
substantial  and  immovable  in  appearance  as  any  on  the 
mainland  and  of  such  a  staid  and  sombre  gray  as  to  look 
doubly  dignified.  A  sort  of  Sunday  quiet  seemed  to 
brood  upon  the  place.  The  women  sat  beside  their  open 
doors  watching  the  play  of  the  children.  A  handful  of 
men  were  grouped  where  our  boatmen  went  for  their 
wine,  but  there  was  no  appearance  of  a  shop  of  any  sort, 
no  evidence  of  labor.  The  fishermen's  hour  of  activity 
upon  land  had  not  arrived. 

We  had  soon  passed  beyond  them  and  came  out 
again  upon  the  lonely  strand,  where  little  reefs  of  rock 
projected  from  the  green  grass  into  the  water  and  a  warm 
stillness  reigned.  Hardly  a  sound  reached  us  from  the 
village,  everything  lay  torpid  in  the  balmy  sunshine  and 
the  gentle  lapping  of  the  water  against  the  shore  was 
a  subdued  caress.  The  spirit  of  the  hour  and  place 
enveloped  us  and  we  sat  gazing  out  upon  the  water  which 
stretched  away  and  melted  into  hazy  indefiniteness  in  the 
distance.  It  was  peaceful,  it  was  lulling,  and  we  unwill- 


A  WAYSIDE  SHRINE. 


THE    HEART    OF    UMBRIA  209 

ingly  turned  from  it  when  the  realization  of  time  with 
its  urgings  and  limitations  warned  us  to  be  gone. 

Our  old  men  were  ready  to  take  us  on  to  the  I  sola 
Minore,  a  little  green  wooded  mound,  whose  solitude  is 
invaded  by  but  one  small  dwelling,  that  of  the  custodian, 
though  what  he  is  guardian  of  is  not  easy  to  see.  He 
allowed  us  to  roam  over  his  island  and  to  rest  in  the  shade 
of  his  largest  tree,  which  he  assured  us  was  unique,  the 
single  example  of  its  kind,  the  wonder  of  every  visitor  who 
had  any  arboreal  knowledge.  It  was  certainly  a  majestic 
and  beautiful  tree  and  if  later  we  thought  we  saw  others 
resembling  it,  though  of  lesser  size,  on  the  mainland,  we 
should  be  the  last  to  desire  to  unsettle  his  confidence  in 
its  exceptional  character. 

When  our  explorations  were  over  and  we  were  again 
seated  in  our  boat  for  the  homeward  row,  it  soon  appeared 
that  the  thirst  of  our  old  servitors  for  knowledge  and 
discussion  was  by  no  means  slaked.  The  interval  had 
but  added  to  their  craving.  Having  begun  with  the 
minutiae  of  every-day  existence  they  advanced  to  larger 
and  more  general  topics,  and  instinctively  addressing 
themselves  to  the  member  of  our  trio  best  able  to  respond 
to  their  demands,  they  launched  into  such  an  investiga- 
tion of  national  questions  of  finance  as  astonished  us 
beyond  measure.  They  marveled  at  the  freedom  of  the 
people  in  our  country.  They  discussed  the  lighter  taxes 
levied,  they  drew  comparisons  with  the  state  of  things  in 
Italy,  and  at  length  they  reverted  to  their  own  lives. 
They  told  us  that  they  had  not  always  been  confined  in 
Passignano ;  they  had  been  soldiers  with  Garibaldi,  they 
had  known  the  tedious  march,  the  blood  of  battle  even ; 
but,  more  than  all,  they  had  looked  upon  the  Eternal  City. 

"O  Signore!  we  have  seen  Rome!  We  with  our 
own  eyes  have  beheld  that  marvelous  city.  What  beauty ! 
what  a  wonder!" 


zio  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

We  warmly  agreed,  we  encouraged  their  ardor,  we 
loved  them  for  their  simplicity,  their  fervor,  their  impas- 
sioned feeling.  Last  of  all,  having  ranged  over  the  field 
of  material  things,  for  it  seemed  as  though  they  had  left 
no  department  of  human  economics  untouched,  they  came 
to  the  moral  and  spiritual.  Did  the  Americans  believe  in 
God,  the  same  God  that  they  worshiped  and  the  blessed 
Virgin?  The  signorina  explained  that  they  assuredly 
believed  in  the  same  God,  though  not  all  of  them  sought 
the  intercession  of  the  blessed  Virgin. 

"  Signorina,"  pursued  one  of  them,  "  you  are  wise, 
you  have  been  educated  and  are  learned.  We  cannot 
even  read  ;  we  are  poor  and  ignorant.  Tell  us,  you  who 
can  understand  these  things,  why  is  it  that  there  is  this 
great  difference  in  the  lot  of  us  human  creatures  ?  They 
tell  us  God  is  good,  then  why  are  you  rich  and  at  ease 
while  we  live  the  life  of  a  dog — c una  vita  di  cane'  ?  " 

Alas !  and  alas !  the  question  of  all  questions,  the 
crowning  perplexity  of  this  unfathomable  world  was  tor- 
menting these  simple  humble  souls  just  as  it  has  and  ever 
will  the  wisest  of  us.  Who  can  answer  it? 


ACROSS  THE  APENNINES 

«•  Di  la  dell'Appennino  £  il  bel  paese, 
Di  la  dell'Appennino  £  il  tempo  bello. 
II  tempo  bello  ch'ebbe  tutta  in  fiore 
La  balda  giovinezza  del  mio  core  ;  * ' 

Panzacchi,      Corde  manet. 

EAVING  Borgo  San  Sepolcro  soon 
after  noon,  we  were  three  hours  jog- 
ging along  in  the  droll  little  open 
omnibus  train  toward  Gubbio,  and 
for  the  first  two  followed  the  wind- 
ings of  the  Tiber  quite  closely, 
crossing  and  recrossing  it,  till  at 
Umbertide  we  left  it  to  follow  its 
course  toward  the  south  while  we 
branched  off  to  the  east.  Umbertide  so  coaxed  us  to 
remain  that  we  very  nearly  dropped  incontinently  from 
the  train  without  a  reassurance  as  to  the  possibility  of 
spending  the  night  there.  The  solid,  upreared  wall  of 
its  ancient  houses  descends  upon  one  side  into  the  wash- 
ing current  of  the  Tiber,  here  grown  to  a  wide  stream, 
and  upon  the  shoals  and  pebble  beaches  of  the  other, 
curly-headed,  laughing  girls  splash  and  beat  the  clothes 
they  are  washing. 

Crossing  the  massive  old  bridge  one  gets  the  whole 
beautiful  picture,  and  a  little  further  on  its  ancient  castle 
reveals  its  most  picturesque  bulk,  while  little  streets  show 


211 


214  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

history  of  whose  career  is  one  of  the  most  exciting 
romances  of  her  time. 

Neither  must  I  forget  the  warlike  old  Bishop 
Ubaldo,  patron  saint  of  the  town,  who  is  venerated  next 
to  the  Deity  and  with  a  more  ardent  enthusiasm.  On 
the  fifteenth  of  May  they  celebrate  a  strange  festival 
in  his  honor  that  appears  to  combine  old  heathen  with 
modern  Christian  ceremonies,  as  it  is  described.  Great 
are  the  preparations  beforehand,  and  upon  the  day  there 
are  banquetings  and  wine  flows  freely.  A  curious  pro- 
cession, unique  in  its  features,  parades  the  city  for  hours, 
and  finally  the  sacred  figure  of  Saint  Ubaldo  is  borne  at 
a  turbulent  run  through  the  streets  and  up  the  steep  hill 
above  the  town  to  the  monastery  named  for  him,  where 
the  closing  rites  take  place ;  after  which  the  poor  saint, 
sometimes  sadly  battered  through  unintentional  indigni- 
ties, is  allowed  to  rest  for  another  twelve-month. 

This  night,  however,  an  air  of  melancholy  as  well 
as  disrepair  seemed  to  hang  over  everything,  and  the 
dark  color  of  the  stone  used  in  building  adds  to  the 
gloom.  Certain  buildings  suggest  the  opulent  past,  their 
size  and  solid  construction  having  preserved  them  to  this 
day  when  their  graceful  arched  windows  are  mostly  filled 
in,  leaving  modern  rectangular  openings  gaping  and  black, 
and  their  grimy  doorways  give  entrance  to  the  poor 
population  who  now  nest  in  them.  Bleak  and  forbid- 
ding they  looked  as  we  trod  the  echoing  flagged  streets, 
and  it  provoked  a  half  smile  to  see  the  names  upon 
certain  corners  —  the  Street  of  Joy,  the  Street  of  the 
Sun — are  now  the  abodes  of  dingy  and  shadowed 
obscurity. 

The  next  morning  a  sound  of  infant  lamentation 
seemed  to  rise  from  all  Gubbio.  We  were  more  or  less 
conscious  of  it  as  we  partook  of  early  breakfast  in  our 
elevated  chamber  —  a  breakfast  I  am  bound  to  say  of 


ACROSS    THE   APENNINES  215 

the  least  appetizing  —  coffee  that  resembled  licorice 
water  and  stale,  unsalted  bread  without  butter.  On 
these  occasions  it  is  well  to  order  an  egg,  if  eggs  are 
procurable,  and  at  any  rate  to  fix  the  mind  intently  upon 
the  coming  pleasures  of  the  morning's  sight-seeing. 

We  went  first  to  the  outer  boundary  of  Gubbio, 
where,  in  the  little  church  of  Santa  Maria  Nuova,  we 
looked  for  a  certain  Madonna  by  Ottaviano  Nelli.  We 
found  it,  admirably  preserved,  as  our  Baedeker  remarked, 
the  colors  brilliant,  the  gold  background  luminous,  but 
a  more  guileless  company  of  pretty,  simpering  paper 
dolls  surely  never  gathered  about  a  languishing  Madonna. 
We  smiled  at  it,  but  it  did  not  detain  us  long. 

When  we  had  left  the  little  sanctuary  we  wandered 
toward  the  centre  of  the  town,  and  as  we  advanced  the 
'cries  that  had  assailed  our  ears  earlier  in  the  day  grew 
louder  and  more  frequent.  Presently  we  saw  that  they 
proceeded  from  various  tiny  kids.  From  every  side 
street  would  appear  a  man  carrying  one  of  these  helpless 
orphans  upon  his  arm,  till  at  last  we  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  but  inquired  of  one  of  the  inhabitants  the 
meaning  of  this  chorus  of  woe.  It  then  transpired  that  it 
was  market  day  ;  that  this  was  the  season  for  capretto 
arrosto  (roasted  kid),  a  great  delicacy,  and  so  from  all 
the  outskirts  they  .were  being  jconveyed  to  the  market- 
place. 

Just  then  a  more  humane  contadino  appeared.  He 
walked  beside  a  white 'donkey,  a  beast  with  well  filled-out 
ribs  and  a  fine  shaggy  coat,  across  whose  back  was 
suspended  a  pair  of  large  clean  canvas  pockets.  Out  of 
the  openings  at  the  top  appeared  the  innocent  white 
heads  of  two  contented  little  kids,  their  long  ears  flap- 
ping to  the  jog  of  the  donkey,  and  their  appealing  little 
noses  pointed  forward  in  interested  observation  of  this, 
their  first  journey  in  the  world.  They  uttered  no  com- 


zi6  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

plaint,  and  if  they  were  on  their  way  to  the  sacrifice  they 
were  happily  ignorant  of  it.  This  was  really  too  much 
for  our  equanimity,  and  the  plaints  of  baby  kids  too 
closely  resembling  those  of  human  babies  to  listen  to 
unmoved,  we  hurried  away,  glad  that  the  day  was  to  be 
spent  in  an  excursion  beyond  the  borders  of  Gubbio. 

Shall  I  confess  that,  hardened  by  hours  of  forget- 
fulness  and  absence,  we  dined  that  night  upon  capretto 
arrosto  and  found  it  delicious !  It  is  more  tender  than 
chicken,  rich  and  succulent  to  a  degree  and  savory  with 
a  stuffing  of  herbs  in  which  rosemary  predominates. 

"  So  good,"  the  padrona  explained  afterwards, 
"because  they  have  never  taken  anything  but  milk. 
They  are  only  fifteen  days  old/' 

We  glanced  guiltily  at  each  other  and  felt  a  little 
like  cannibals. 

The  evening  of  this  day  was  marked  by  an  inter- 
esting discovery.  I  bethought  me  to  inquire  of  our 
padrone  whether  any  trace  of  the  ancestral  house  of  the 
Accoramboni  still  existed  in  Gubbio.  It  was  mentioned 
in  no  guide-book,  so  that  there  was  not  a  clue  to  follow. 
He  looked  doubtful  and  appealed  to  the  padrona.  She 
knew  nothing  of  any  such  family,  and  small  wonder,  as 
they  departed  from  Gubbio  some  three  centuries  ago. 
Still  they  called  to  mind  that  an  old  citizen,  wise  in  the 
lore  of  the  place,  was  close  by,  and  sent  to  see  if  he 
could  give  help.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came,  a  heavy, 
dark-visaged  man,  who  could  show  the  Signore  to  the 
place.  Certainly,  he  knew  that  palazzo,  and  as  we  walked 
toward  it  he  volunteered  information  of  various  kinds 
concerning  Gubbio.  He  suggested  purchasing  possibili- 
ties, dropped  dark  hints  about  old  lace  and  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  fragment  of  majolica  that  might  have  been 
Master  Giorgio's,  lustrous  with  a  peculiar  deep  red  glaze. 
He  told  us  that  the  present  occupants  of  the  Palazzo 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


ACROSS    THE    APENNINES  217 

Accoramboni  were  well  enough  off;  that  they  had  quite 
rebuilt  all  the  upper  stories  of  the  building,  but  that  the 
lower  court  was  unchanged ;  and  when  we  reached  it,  an 
inconspicuous  mass  in  the  unbroken  line  of  the  street, 
he  made  the  portal  resound  with  loud  knockings. 

After  a  while  the  head  of  a  maid-servant  was  thrust 
from  an  upper  window,  and  at  the  risk  of  his  equilibrium, 
with  head  thrown  well  back,  he  entered  into  an  explana- 
tion of  the  eccentricity  of  the  Signore,  who  would  be 
under  such  obligations  if  they  might  regard  the  cor  tile. 
After  as  much  time  as  might  have  sufficed  to  obtain  per- 
mission and  descend  with  the  key,  we  were  let  in,  and 
there  in  a  stone-lined  apartment  stood  a  beautiful  old 
well-curb  of  mellow  carved  marble,  bearing  the  family 
arms  upon  one  side.  We  felt  like  discoverers.  It  was 
evidently  in  an  unvalued  and  disused  place,  a  sort  of 
lumber-room.  May  no  vandal  of  a  rich  tourist  ever 
discover  it  and  bribe  the  unappreciative  owner  into  per- 
mitting its  removal ! 

Of  course,  Vittoria  Accoramboni,  in  the  radiance  of 
that  youth  and  charm  that  the  old  writers  dwell  on,  had 
often  leaned  her  warm  breast  against  this  very  marble 
in  those  early  days  before  an  unscrupulous,  ambitious 
mother  had  carried  her  to  Rome,  there  to  compel  all  hearts 
by  the  irresistible  spell  of  her  wondrous  blond  beauty. 
There  she  was  later  to  become  wife  to  the  nephew  of 
one  of  the  greatest  popes,  to  acquiesce  afterward  in  his 
murder  that  she  might  become  a  duchess,  and  in  turn, 
after  a  career  with  which  all  Italy  rang,  to  be  stabbed  to 
death  with  aggravated  cruelty  and  insult,  but  to  be  so 
avenged  that  for  her  life  forty  men  suffered  death  in 
various  fearful  forms. 

Such  was  Renaissance  Italy,  and  here  in  this  neg- 
lected lumber-room  stood  the  impassive  marble  that  had 
witnessed  the  beginnings  of  that  extraordinary  drama. 


218  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

It  seemed  somehow  to  keep  a  nearer  and  more  intimate 
connection  with  its  past  than  any  public,  continually 
visited  shrine,  and  almost  to  offer  a  half  confidence  to 
one  who  should  venture  to  draw  near  it  in  a  not  discord- 
ant spirit. 

We  left  it  unwillingly  and  made  our  way  back  to 
the  albergOy  walking  slowly  beside  our  swarthy  guide, 
but  the  deepening  twilight  only  served  to  renew  the 
impression  that  the  silence  and  decay  of  Gubbio  had 
made  on  us  in  the  beginning. 

URBINO. 

"  PerchS  il  Sanzio  pift  tosto  al  cielo  amico 

Giunger  potesse  a  volo, 
Da  natura  gli  fu  posta  la  cuna 
Bella  sovra  le  nubi." 

Earnest  were  the  consultations  that  preceded  the 
progress  to  Urbino.  Much  was  expected  of  it.  It  had 
been  so  long  anticipated.  It  was  to  be  the  crowning 
adventure  in  the  succession  of  carriage  journeys.  Although 
we  started  out  with  commonplace  horses,  white  oxen  were 
to  help  us  up  the  steeper  inclines,  and  if  ever  the  powers 
of  the  air  were  invoked  to  grant  a  favoring  day,  it  was 
fervently  done  on  this  occasion. 

Perhaps  it  is  only  in  Italy  that  anticipations  are  more 
than  realized.  At  all  events  when  we  fared  forth  all 
things  appeared  to  favor  us,  and  even  the  brown,  outworn 
aspect  of  sombre  Gubbio  upon  its  stone  ledge  was  warmed 
and  cheered  by  the  June  sunshine.  We  left  it  regretfully, 
for  a  third  visit  had  still  further  endeared  it  to  us,  and  as 
we  slowly  ascended  the  rocky  cleft  that  led  us  away  from 
it  we  promised  ourselves  to  return  to  it  yet  again. 

We  climbed  higher  and  higher  and  gradually  emerged 
from  the  deep  shadows  of  the  ravine.  Grassy  slopes 


ACROSS   THE   APENNINES  219 

rolled  away  from  us  on  either  side,  forming  an  interval 
between  us  and  more  abrupt  peaks  rising  further  away. 
And  now  the  oxen  were  brought  into  requisition,  tramp- 
ling heavily  down  from  a  high-pitched  podere  whence 
they  were  lent.  They  matter-of-factly  stood  to  be  made 
fast  to  our  carriage-tongue  in  front  of  the  horses,  and  at 
the  word  of  the  contadino  who  accompanied  them  bent 
their  sturdy  strength  to  tugging  us  upward.  The  horses 
still  conscientiously  tried  to  do  their  share,  but  they 
might  well  have  spared  themselves,  for  our  big  leaders 
made  nothing  of  us  and  looked  as  though  they  could 
have  added  the  weight  of  the  horses  to  that  of  the  vehicle 
and  its  occupants  with  absolute  unconcern. 

Wider  and  wider  views  spread  themselves  before  us, 
nor  as  we  proceeded  did  we  feel  inclined  to  agree  with 
travelers  who  complain  of  the  desolation  and  barrenness 
of  the  Apennines.  Those  of  us  familiar  with  treeless 
mountains  have  been  taught  the  secret  of  the  beauty  of 
an  arid  landscape,  the  colors  with  which  the  morning  and 
evening  can  paint  uncovered  heights,  the  atmospheric 
magic  not  to  be  worked  upon  a  background  of  foliage. 
Besides,  even  if  there  are  sterile  altitudes  aloft,  cultivation 
is  carried  up  to  the  last  foothold  afforded,  and  here  and 
there  rugged  little  stone  cottages  lend  a  friendly  inhabited 
air,  the  patches  of  soil  about  them  neatly  kept  and  blos- 
soming forth  into  productive  greenness. 

But  the  whole  day's  journey  is  not  at  the  same  eleva- 
tion and  when  we  had  taken  leave  of  our  oxen  we  bowled 
down  into  valleys  of  enchantment  where  a  beryl-green 
river  coquetted  with  us  for  many  miles,  advancing  and 
receding  as  we  met  it  or  withdrew  from  it,  compelled  by 
the  windings  of  the  road.  Sometimes  it  flowed  against 
wonderful  pink  rocks  almost  unreal  in  their  rosy  tint, 
and  here  the  cottages  were  built  of  blocks  of  it,  looking 
as  though  the  warm  pigment  had  been  laid  on  the  surface 


220  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

after  construction.  And  now  we  were  traveling  upon 
one  of  the  immemorial  roads  that  led  to  Rome,  the  great 
Flaminian  Way.  It  made  us  old  to  think  of  it  and  yet 
it  renewed  youth,  too,  to  see  it  looking  as  though  built 
yesterday.  Then  came  the  Furlo  Pass,  that  splendid 
gash  cut  by  Vespasian  through  the  mountains,  between 
whose  warm  mahogany-colored  sides  we  followed  the  now 
noisy  river  boiling  in  its  bed  far  below  the  level  of  the 
road. 

It  was  not  long  after  leaving  the  pass  behind  that  as  we 
crept  along  the  valley  our  driver  first  pointed  out  Urbino, 
up  against  the  sky,  upon  the  highest  and  furthest  ridge 
in  sight  and  looking  as  though  it  must  command  the 
width  of  Italy.  After  this  we  were  perhaps  two  hours 
more  in  reaching  it,  gradually  ascending  bench  after  bench 
of  the  altitude  till  we  stopped  at  its  imposing  gate,  to  be 
questioned  by  the  customs  official.  The  conversation  at 
this  point  is  usually  something  as  follows : 

"  What  have  you  with  you?" 

"  Nothing  subject  to  duty." 

"What  is  in  this  hamper?" 

"  Clothing  that  has  been  worn." 

"  Have  you  any  spirits  with  you,  or  anything  to 
eat?" 

"Nothing." 

After  which  the  officer  touches  his  cap  politely  and 
you  are  permitted  to  drive  on — a  curious  ceremony,  to 
be  gone  through  with  at  the  gate  of  every  city. 

A  gentleman  who  goes  out  for  a  day's  fishing  in  the 
country  must  pay  a  duty  upon  his  basket  when  he 
returns.  Every  peasant  bringing  his  vegetables  to  sell 
within  the  walls  must  yield  up  the  amount  of  the  tax,  and 
I  have  seen  a  barefooted  old  woman  entering  with  a  poor 
bundle  of  grass  upon  her  head  which  she  had  cut  beside 
the  road,  stopped  while  an  iron  rod  was  thrust  through 


ACROSS    THE    APENNINES  221 

and  through  her  burden  lest  it  might  conceal  a  fragment 
of  food.  Again,  if  you  wished  to  carry  some  provisions 
with  you  upon  a  trip  that  led  through  several  towns,  you 
would  be  obliged  to  pay  at  every  gate,  and  if  chance  led 
you  at  last  to  carry  them  home  again  unconsumed, 
another  duty  would  be  demanded  at  the  very  threshold 
you  first  carried  them  over ! 

But  having  been  made  free  of  Urbino  we  thought  no 
more  of  the  unhappy  restrictions  of  the  present,  for  were 
we  not  upon  storied  ground  ?  The  city  climbs  the  last 
heights  of  the  mountain  and  rises  steeply  from  pitch  to 
pitch.  As  you  enter  you  may  look  over  the  low  parapet 
on  the  right  down  to  the  pallone  ground  and  upon  the 
left  up  to  the  Ducal  Palace  above  your  head.  Scarcely 
anywhere  else  have  you  the  feeling  of  being  so  raised 
aloft  and  yet  within  a  city.  As  you  look  down  from  its 
pinnacle,  rank  after  rank  the  grass-covered  folds  of  moun- 
tain-ranges slope  away  in  every  direction  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach.  Even  here  where  cities  seek  the  loftiest  posi- 
tions, instead  of  the  flat  plain,  must  it  not  give  a  sense 
of  vantage,  a  certain  feeling  of  superiority  over  the 
dwellers  on  humble  ground,  to  look  out  thus  over  the 
world  and  see  it  descending  and  falling  back  whichever 
way  one  turns  the  eye?  To  look  ever  down  upon  the 
sun-bathed  valleys  below  and  detect  the  glint  of  a  wind- 
ing river,  or  the  white  line  of  a  highway  from  the  watch- 
tower  of  one's  dwelling  among  the  clouds  ? 

I  do  not  know  if  it  would  promote  high  thoughts 
and  a  detachment  from  all  trivial  and  vulgar  things,  but 
I  cannot  say  that  the  inhabitants  of  Urbino  looked  very 
different  from  those  occupying  a  less  favored  position. 
Ours,  however,  was  too  short  an  acquaintance  to  pene- 
trate below  the  surface.  As  we  sat  on  the  low  parapet 
above  the  pallone  ground  in  the  late  afternoon  we  had 
opportunity  for  seeing  the  aristocracy  of  the  city,  to 


222  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

whom  the  time  and  place  offered  an  occasion  for  prome- 
nading. Staid  mothers  of  families  in  rustling  silks  with 
daughters  beside  them,  or  younger  fathers  and  mothers 
with  a  group  of  little  ones,  handsome  young  officers  in 
the  most  shining  of  military  uniforms,  slowly  filed  by,  or 
found  places  upon  the  parapet  to  chat  and  watch  the 
game  going  on  below.  Groups  of  acquaintances  met, 
introductions  were  extended,  cordial  encounters  and 
animated  conversations  took  place. 

It  was  pleasant  to  look  on  and  almost  form  a  part 
of  this  easy  out-of-door  social  life,  and  yet  the  spectacle 
was  a  very  modern  one,  and  it  required  a  certain  effort 
not  to  be  querulous  at  seeing  how  far  Urbino  had 
advanced  beyond  the  fifteenth  century  with  which  one 
always  associates  it.  We  tried  to  content  ourselves  with 
hearing  fragments  of  the  cheerful  chatter  going  on  about 
us,  and  looking  at  the  pallone  players  in  their  white 
costumes  as  they  vigorously  hurled  the  ball,  or  struck  it 
back  with  the  curious  contrivance  which  at  a  little 
distance  resembles  a  pine-cone. 

It  was  not  till  the  next  morning  that  we  turned  our 
backs  upon  the  present  in  the  empty  silent  piazza  before 
the  Ducal  Palace  and  reverently  crossed  the  threshold  of 
the  past,  as  we  entered  the  echoing  halls  of  the  famous 
pile.  We  were  told  that  it  was  now  a  government  resi- 
dence, and  we  knew  that  somewhere  within  it  lurked  the 
ancient  archives  of  the  city,  but  neither  fact  gave  it 
animation.  To  us  it  appeared  as  solitary  as  though  no 
one  had  ever  inhabited  its  faded  salons  since  the  lovely 
Elizabetta  Gonzaga,  with  all  her  wit  and  charm,  disap- 
peared from  the  scene  of  her  gentle  triumphs.  Fancy 
easily  busied  herself  in  filling  the  halls  with  that 
princely  court  of  Montefeltro,  once  the  model  of  its 
time.  A  ceiling  with  its  color  nearly  obliterated,  a 
beautifully  wrought  marble  mantel,  a  bit  of  graceful 


ACROSS    THE    APENNINES  223 

carving — upon  these  one  must  build  up  the  luxury  that 
once  reigned  here,  when  tapestry  and  cloth-of-gold 
draped  the  walls,  when  bronze,  marble  and  costly  pictures 
crowded  the  rooms,  when  books  of  the  best  and  rarest 
were  everywhere,  and  amidst  all  that  was  rich  and 
exquisite  moved  wit  and  beauty,  the  stalwart  warrior,  the 
subtle  priest,  the  impassioned  poet. 

Here  Tasso  declaimed  his  verse  ;  here  Raphael  and 
Titian  painted ;  here  Bibbiena's  witticisms  delighted 
applauding  groups,  and  courtly  Bembo  discoursed  of 
love.  Now  it  is  as  bare  as  when  the  infamous  Borgia 
looted  and  left  it,  carrying  away  its  priceless  treasures  to 
the  Vatican. 

On  the  morning  of  our  departure,  and  too  late, 
alas  !  for  extended  intercourse,  I  made  acquaintance  with 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  dwellers  in  Urbino.  It  was 
upon  a  street  corner  where  I  loitered  while  the  horses 
were  being  harnessed  to  take  us  away.  The  more  active 
people  of  the  town  bustled  to  and  fro  about  their 
morning  concerns,  the  leisurely  chatted  in  groups  or 
occupied  chairs  drawn  well  out  upon  the  pavement.  No 
one  was  irritated  at  being  obliged  to  walk  round  them. 
Foot-passengers  are  expected  to  be  accommodating  in  a 
country  where  the  household  life  overflows  at  every  turn 
into  the  streets.  Spinning,  sewing  and  knitting  are  not 
carried  on  in  the  unsociable  retirement  of  house  interiors. 
The  family  clothes-lines,  for  example,  often  occupy  the 
whole  width  of  the  sidewalk,  where  there  is  any,  for  quite 
a  distance,  while  pedestrians  step  off,  and,  picking  their 
way  among  the  horses,  amiably  circumnavigate  such 
obstructions. 

Idly  watching  the  scene  before  me,  a  few  flute-like 
notes  caused  me  to  turn  my  head,  and  there  from  out  a  cage 
hanging  against  the  rough  wall  two  bright  eyes  were  gazing 
at  me  in  friendly  invitation,  as  I  liked  to  think.  I  instantly 


224  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

approached  and  saw  that  the  cage  held  a  young  nightin- 
gale. The  tiny  creature  displayed  no  uneasiness  as  I 
came  close  to  him,  but  rather  seemed  to  advance  a  little 
to  meet  me.  I  spoke  to  him  and  he  hastened  to  respond. 
In  the  warmth  of  the  early  morning  sun  he  was  trying  his 
voice,  practicing  upon  those  infinitesimal  but  miraculous 
vocal  chords  that  nothing  human  can  imitate. 

Times  and  seasons  were  nothing  to  him  in  the  dis- 
covery of  his  powers.  Later,  perhaps,  he  would  confine 
his  perfected  song  to  the  closing  hours  of  the  day  and  the 
mysterious  night;  but  now  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  he 
must  experiment,  and  he  yearned  for  appreciation.  I 
murmured  encouragement  and  he  leaned  toward  me,  pal- 
pitating with  life,  longing  for  sympathy.  He  half  raised 
and  fluttered  his  wings,  he  turned  his  head  from  side  to 
side,  he  puffed  out  his  little  feathered  breast,  while  the 
sweetest  half-whispered  sounds,  with  starts  and  pauses 
and  broken  cadences  welled  forth.  When  he  hesitated 
for  a  moment  I  softly  urged  and  incited,  and  again  he 
threw  himself  into  the  rapture  of  expression,  and  notes 
gay  or  plaintive  bubbled  out.  His  excitement  grew,  he 
tried  higher  flights.  If  inexperience  mocked  him  it  but 
stimulated  him  to  greater  effort.  He  swayed  his  little  body 
and  stretched  his  neck  upward  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  desire. 
It  was  too  human  —  there  was  heart-break  in  it.  This 
diminutive  being  had  a  soul  as  surely  as  though  it  were 
not  confined  within  the  limits  of  a  bird's  body. 

Why,  oh  why,  I  have  often  asked  myself  since,  did  I 
so  soon  relinquish  companionship  with  that  confiding 
little  songster!  I  could  have  spent  happy  hours  with 
him,  yet  I  hurried  away  to  Pesaro  to  look  at  an  em- 
browned Bellini  madonna  in  a  bad  light.  What  though  the 
figs  of  Pesaro  are  renowned  and  there  are  dead  manuscripts 
and  carvings  of  old  ivory  in  the  museum  ?  What  were 
these  things  to  the  presence  of  my  beguiling  little  bird? 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  URBINO. 


JfsE  L._.t 
^    OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

,£4UF 


ACROSS    THE    APENNINES  225 

Thus  it  is  that  we  hesitate  to  sacrifice  the  intended,  the 
usual,  to  some  sudden  opportunity  that  is  but  half  recog- 
nized, and  lay  up  for  ourselves  pangs  of  regret. 

The  descent  from  Urbino  to  Pesaro,  where  it  lies 
upon  the  seashore,  takes  but  two  and  a  half  hours.  Your 
driver,  a  pleasant  rascal,  assures  you  that  it  takes  three  or 
four,  and  so  you  agree  to  pay  him  the  twenty  lire,  which 
is  far  too  high  a  price.  But  you  forget  your  chagrin  at 
being  outwitted  in  the  sweetness  of  the  landscape  and 
the  joyous  motion  over  the  smooth  roads  that  carry  you 
aslant  toward  the  Adriatic. 


THE   SHORE   OF  THE  ADRIATIC 


Vassi  in  Sanleo,  e  discendesi  in  Noli ; 

Montasi  su  Bismantova  in  cacume 

Con  esso  i  pie  :  ma  qui  convien  ch'uom  voli." 

PURGATORIO;    IV,   25. 

an  ancient  copy  of  Dennistoun's 
Dukes  of  Urbino  there  is  an  old- 
fashioned  steel-engraving  of  San 
Leo.  It  is  portrayed  with  the  usual 
liberty  taken  in  the  engravings  of 
that  time.  At  the  top  of  an 
impossible  elevation  stand  as  many 
buildings  as  it  may  accommodate 
conformably  with  perfect  proportion 
and  picturesqueness,  while  sloping  to  the  plain  below 
reaches  a  path  in  beautifully  even  zigzags  of  about  forty- 
five  degrees  incline.  At  the  bottom  it  meets  a  broad  river 
which  possesses  every  advantage  of  bold  shore  and  abun- 
dant foliage,  while  on  the  opposite  bank  rises  an  elevation 
only  less  striking  in  altitude  but  seemingly  minus  any 
possibility  of  approach  to  the  dwellings  on  its  summit. 

On  a  youthful  imagination  this  picture  made  a  vivid 
impression.  Was  it  possible  that  in  the  Old  World,  as 
wondrous  and  as  far  off  as  the  stars,  such  a  castle  hung 
suspended  in  the  air?  What  adventure  of  arms  was 
gallant  enough  to  accord  with  it  ?  What  romance  of  love 


THE    SHORE    OF   THE    ADRIATIC        227 

thrilling  enough  to  befit  it  ?  Surely  its  history  must  offer 
blood-stirring  pages. 

Some  search  revealed  that  as  far  back  as  the  Roman 
time  its  summit  was  chosen  for  a  temple  to  Jupiter,  the 
Subduer  of  Enemies,  and  that  with  the  next  era  it  became 
the  abode  of  a  most  Christian  hermit,  around  whose  cell 
the  first  cluster  of  houses  grew  up  and  who  was  in  the 
end  sanctified  by  canonization.  But  these  verities,  naked 
of  details,  though  properly  enriching  its  background, 
were  too  vague  to  satisfy  the  fancy,  and  it  was  not  till 
the  time  of  King  Berengar  that  the  halo  of  romance 
distinctly  settled  upon  the  head  of  San  Leo.  There 
seemed  a  fitness  in  the  fact  that  in  the  tenth  century, 
that  gloomiest  period  of  her  dark  ages,  the  last  king  of 
Italy  should  take  his  stand  upon  the  rock  of  San  Leo, 
there  to  make  his  final  and  losing  struggle  against  the 
German  Otho. 

Even  in  riper  times  the  aureole  did  not  fade  quite 
away  from  San  Leo,  and  the  longing  sometime  to  see  it 
remained  laid  away  in  a  mental  corner,  only  awaiting  the 
occasion  to  be  brought  forth  and  transmuted  into  a  reali- 
zation. The  hour  came  while  we  were  in  Rimini.  It 
had  been  a  disappointment  that  we  could  not  draw  near 
to  Rimini  by  the  more  deferential  or  at  least  appropriate 
means  of  horses  and  carriage.  To  take  a  railway  train 
jarred  upon  the  feelings  with  which  one  approached  the 
stage  whereon  certain  of  the  most  striking  dramas  of  the 
Middle  Ages  unrolled  themselves,  though  it  might  well 
enough  be  in  conformity  with  present  conditions ;  and 
one  must  needs  confess  that  there  is  disillusion  also  in  the 
arrival.  Lying  flat  upon  the  plain,  close  to  the  sea,  and 
yet  not  making  its  shore  an  important  feature,  it  is  too 
modern,  too  commonplace,  and  the  few  monuments  of 
its  past  that  remain  are  isolated  and  stand  far  apart, 
without  even  the  support  of  proximity  to  yield  an 


228  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

atmosphere  reassuring  to  one  another  and  consoling  to 
the  pilgrim.  We  could  discover  no  memorials  of  that 
unhappy  Francesca,  who,  tricked  and  duped  to  her  heart's 
undoing,  came  here  to  meet  the  cutting-off  of  her  life  and 
the  tragedy  of  that  eternity  which  has  been  made  the 
more  real  of  the  two  to  us. 

No  doubt  we  ought  to  have  been  thankful  that  the 
era  of  blood  and  violence  was  over,  that  this  battle- 
ground of  brutal  passions  and  ferocious  strivings  was 
transformed  into  a  mild  industrious  community.  We 
should  have  been  glad  to  hear  of  the 
lucrative  silk  industry  and  the  prom- 
enade for  summer  bathers  on  the 
beach,  yet  such  is  the  selfishness  of 
those  who  are  bent  on  seeking  out  the 
shrines  of  the  past  that  we  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  vulgar  prosperity  of  its 
present  and  openly  mourned  the  un- 
filial  blotting  out  of  its  cruel,  tumult- 
uous, throbbing  past. 

But   at   least,  in   the   gratifying 

MALATESTA  ARMS.  seclusion  of  an  unfrequented  quarter, 
under  a  gray,  dripping  sky,  there  stood 
that  strangest  of  all  churches,  symbol  of  a  Christian 
faith,  and  decently  dedicated  to  Saint  Francis,  yet  inso- 
lently made  the  altar  of  a  passion  that  for  years  defied 
human  law  and  flaunted  itself  before  eyes  to  which  its 
presence  was  a  daily  insult.  Openly  enough  it  was  called 
the  Temple  of  the  Malatestas,  that  race  of  tyrants,  wil- 
ful, indomitable,  violent,  who  ruled  Rimini;  and  the 
emblems  of  Sigismondo  and  the  beautiful  Isotta  appear 
everywhere  within  it.  It  was  with  a  sort  of  fearful  joy 
that  we  gazed  at  the  medallions  of  the  man  who  was  a 
type  of  all  that  was  most  monstrous  and  terrible  in  the 
incredible  combinations  of  character  that  the  Renaissance 


SAN  LEO.     THE  ENGRAVING  FROM  DENNISTOUN. 


THE    SHORE    OF   THE    ADRIATIC        229 

produced.  In  the  slanting  shape  of  the  head,  the  curious 
compression  of  the  nose,  the  unusual  flatness  and  length 
of  the  eyes,  we  looked  for  the  signs  of  that  nature  whose 
forceful  precocity  took  charge  of  an  army  and  won  a 
battle  at  thirteen;  that  ruled  a  province  thereafter;  that 
fought  for  other  princes  in  the  custom  of  that  day,  but 
was  ruled  by  treachery  rather  than  by  fidelity.  We 
searched  the  expression  of  the  being  who  was  the  cruel 
tyrant  of  many,  yet  (such  was  his  passion  for  learn- 
ing and  his  interest  in  encouraging  the  arts)  the  submis- 
sive pupil  of  a  handful  of  pedants ;  whose  lawless,  abnor- 
mal nature  was  convicted  of  almost  every  open  outrage 
and  nameless  crime,  and  yet  who  through  it  all  remained 
true,  in  his  way,  to  the  love  of  one  woman,  whom  he 
postponed  again  and  again  to  ambitious  schemes,  but 
whom  he  always  leaned  upon  and  who  was  often  the 
regent  and  protector  of  his  city. 

The  elephant  and  the  rose,  chosen  emblems  of  Sigis- 
mondo  and  Isotta,  look  down  from  the  enduring  marble; 
their  ciphers  and  coats-of-arms  appear  undisguisedly  in 
the  arabesque  ornamentation  of  balustrade  and  screen; 
their  tombs  are  the  monuments  for  which  all  exists.  The 
decency  of  the  nineteenth  century  appears  to  have  oblit- 
erated the  ribald  epitaph  which  the  disdainful  Sigismondo 
caused  to  be  inscribed  upon  his ;  but  the  billowy  angels, 
the  troops  of  singing  children,  the  sea  beasts,  the  fanci- 
ful riot  of  festooned  garland  and  classic  embellishment 
remain,  and  carry  the  eye  from  chapel  to  chapel,  from 
panel  to  panel,  in  wonder  and  bewilderment.  And  here 
in  the  midst  of  it  all  once  sat  the  beautiful  and  learned 
Isotta,  in  the  pomp  of  the  triumphal  dedication  that 
opened  this  amazing  shrine,  which  mocked  Christianity 
in  its  celebration  of  her  and  her  lover.  What  were  her 
thoughts  as  she  gazed  upon  the  spectacle  prepared  for 
her,  what  her  feelings  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  hapless 


230 


WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 


wife,  who  may  well  have  been  present,  too,  and  whose 
existence  made  all  the  glory  of  the  homage  offered  to 
Isotta  and  the  exaltation  of  her  proud  position  empty  to 
her?  As  it  was  then,  unfinished  but  hurriedly  prepared 
for  a  special  date,  it  remains  to-day,  and  with  the  cen- 
turies the  wonder  of  it  grows  no  less. 

In  the  evening  hours  at  the  hotel  the  proprietor 
brought   for   our  diversion  the   ponderous   bulk  of  an 
extended  history  of  Rimini.     Some  perusal   of  it   dis- 
closed the  aim  of  the  author 
to  be   such  wholesale  white- 
washing of  the   character  of 
Sigismondo   as    appeared    to 
throw  the  onus  of  misrepre- 
sentation on  all  other  histo- 


ELEPHANT  AND  ROSE. 


nans. 

Besides  this  temple  there 
is  the  fortress-palace  of  the 
Malatestas,  standing  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  city  and 
now  used  as  a  prison.  It 
stands  as  proudly  as  ever, 
with  the  soft  spring  grass  caressing  the  rough  stones  of 
its  base  and  sweeping  away  in  a  stretch  of  even  sward 
before  it.  We  stopped  to  gaze  at  it  early  the  next  day 
as  we  took  our  way  toward  San  Leo.  I  do  not  know 
whether  it  was  the  invigoration  of  the  limpid  morning 
air  or  the  exultation  that  pervades  the  heart  in  the 
achievement  of  a  long  desire,  but  as  we  advanced  the 
feeling  was  of  being  swept  along  and  upward,  quite 
independent  of  such  aids  as  carriage-wheels  and  soberly 
trotting  horses. 

A  wide  trough-like  valley  opens  itself  into  the 
mountains  back  of  Rimini  and  is  filled  in  with  a  waving 
growth  of  cultivation.  Sometimes  the  succulent  green 


THE   SHORE    OF   THE   ADRIATIC        231 

is  recognizable  to  foreign  eyes  and  sometimes  not,  but 
it  is  all  beautiful.  On  the  left,  skyward,  hangs  stout 
little  San  Marino,  that  tiny  republic  whose  survival 
through  ages  of  change  and  violence  is  matter  for  specu- 
lation and  marvel ;  and  on  both  sides  rise  height  after 
height  of  rocky  peaks,  pushing  out  of  the  green  below. 
After  a  while  the  horses  no  longer  trot,  but  labor 
patiently  up  steeper  inclines,  and  as  the  green  thins  and 
the  mountain-ribs  protrude  themselves,  little  stony 
groups  of  cottages,  rough  excrescences  on  the  wayside, 
peer  down  at  one.  But  if  the  exterior  is  rough-hewn 
and  austere  the  love  of  beauty  rests  within,  for  on  the 
window-sills  stand  potstof  carnations  (that  dear  delight 
of  the  Italian  heart)  stretching  forth  their  slim,  angular 
stems  and  ruddy  blooms  to  the  sunlight. 

At  last,  round  the  shoulder  of  a  hill,  San  Leo  comes 
suddenly  into  sight :  strange  little  wind-swept  town,  set 
high  up  in  the  eye  of  heaven,  like  Simon  Stylites  upon 
his  column.  We  observed  it  for  a  while  across  an  inter- 
vening gap  and  had  time  to  compare  it  with  the  steel- 
engraving.  There  were  differences.  The  majestic  river 
had  in  some  way  entirely  disappeared,  the  symmetrical 
approach  in  the  form  of  a  trestle-like  zigzag  was  also 
absent  and  replaced  by  a  road  cut  into  the  cliff,  but 
winding  round  it.  There  were  alterations  in  the  dis- 
posal of  buildings  at  the  top,  while  as  for  its  companion 
peak,  instead  of  being  but  a  stone's  throw  away,  it  had 
receded  to  a  distance  of  some  miles.  These,  however, 
were  minor  considerations;  we  were  not  disposed  to 
complain  ;  San  Leo  was  not  disappointing. 

Set  in  a  country  of  curious  geologic  formation,  it  is 
the  boldest,  most  salient  point  in  its  vicinity,  where  waves 
of  green  surge  up  into  crests  of  stone  and  peaks  and 
obelisks  of  rock  rise  suddenly  out  of  rolling  mountain 
valleys,  velvety  with  herbage.  It  is  the  very  stronghold 


232  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

to  have  withstood  a  siege  and  looks  as  though  it  must 
have  been  impregnable  to  all  but  treachery.  Highest  of 
all  and  occupying  all  the  space  on  its  pinnacle,  stands  the 
castle,  as  usual  now  a  prison ;  and  our  driver  pointed  out 
the  place  where  one  poor  wretch,  who  had  in  some  way 
managed  to  obtain  and  secrete  a  rope,  had  swung  himself 
off  in  a  frantic  effort  for  freedom  that  proved  but  a  plunge 
to  death,  for  in  his  ignorance  he  had  miscalculated  the 
depth  and  was  dashed  to  pieces  below.  On  the  ledge 
under  the  fortress  hangs  the  town,  gray  and  weather- 
beaten,  a  handful  of  houses,  but  with  its  little  cathedral, 
and  in  the  centre  of  its  piazza  a  fine  fountain,  full  to 
overflowing  with  pure  water.  The  existence  of  such  a 
spring  nearly  at  the  top  of  a  crag  like  this  is  one  of  its 
most  surprising  features. 

The  corrupting  influence  of  tourists  is  seldom  felt  at 
San  Leo,  so  guides  and  beggars  are  happily  absent.  But 
there  is  no  lack  of  little  boys  who  are  quite  ready  to  accept 
the  remnants  of  the  travelers'  luncheon ;  and  it  is  well  to 
consume  that  refection  sitting  on  the  outer  boundary, 
where  there  lies  a  convenient  grassy  terrace  and  the  eye 
can  travel  for  leagues  over  the  face  of  the  lonely,  beau- 
tiful country.  One  finds  the  little  cathedral  worthy  of 
investigation  and  may  certainly  do  worse  than  to  sit  for  a 
while  by  the  fountain,  watching  the  stray  citizens  of  San 
Leo  who  pause  there  and  who  appear  to  have  learned  the 
lesson  of  unhasting  calm  in  their  exalted  niche  overhang- 
ing the  world. 

Then  there  is  the  bustle  of  horses  being  put  to  and 
the  carriage  made  ready  for  the  fleeting  visitors'  return 
to  the  lower  earth,  though  even  this  creates  hardly  an 
eddy  in  the  serenity  of  San  Leo.  And  so  down  and 
away  again  toward  the  sea,  with  new  lights  and  shadows 
playing  subtle  changes  upon  the  sweet  landscape  and  the 
heart  full  of  peace  and  precious  memories. 


THE    SHORE    OF   THE    ADRIATIC        233 

RAVENNA. 

'*  Mellowed  by  scutcheoned  panes  in  cloisters  old, 
Seclusions  ivy-hushed,  and  pavements  sweet 
With  immemorial  lisp  of  musing  feet. ' ' 

LOWELL.     Agassiz. 

On  the  way  to  Ravenna  we  consulted  together  in 
regard  to  a  choice  between  its  two  hotels. 

"Shall  we  take  the  Hotel  Byron  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Go  to  a  hotel  with  an  English  name  in  Italy  ! " 
exclaimed  the  youngest  of  our  party  with  disdain,  taking 
up  her  Baedeker.  "Listen  to  this — Albergo  Spada 
d'Oro  e  San  Marco  [Hotel  of  the  Golden  Sword  and 
Saint  Mark]  ;  that  is  evidently  the  place  for  us." 

However,  in  the  end  the  fact  that  a  garden  was 
promised  with  the  Byron  turned  the  scale  and  we  soon 
found  its  name  to  be  the  only  thing  about  it  which  was 
English,  for,  though  serving  as  a  hotel  now,  it  is  in 
reality  the  Palazzo  Rasponi,  home  of  an  old  and  famous 
family.  As  for  the  garden,  though  not  large,  it  is  as 
delightful  as  old  Italian  gardens  always  are,  where  so 
much  is  often  made  of  a  limited  space  and  effects  are 
produced  in  unexpected  ways.  It  is  full  of  arbors, 
fountains,  old  statues,  beautiful  bits  of  carved  marble 
and  shady  retreats  where  high  hedges  give  privacy  to 
seats  for  reading,  resting  or  taking  tea.  A  tower  rises 
nearly  in  the  centre  and  great  linden-trees  mass  their 
shade  here  and  there,  while  at  this  season  flowers  spring 
everywhere. 

Just  outside  the  gate  is  Dante's  tomb,  once,  per- 
haps, beautiful  and  appropriate,  but  now  spoiled  by  the 
withering  touch  of  the  restorer.  Abroad  in  the  town  there 
is  quiet  and  emptiness  everywhere,  and  we  walk  through 
the  echoing  galleries  or  sit  gazing  at  ancient  mosaics  in 
the  cool  semi-darkness  of  churches,  with  never  a  tourist 


234  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

in  sight.  Numbers  of  travelers  come  here,  no  doubt, 
but  perhaps  not  many  think  of  choosing  the  middle  of 
June  to  visit  a  place  which  has  such  a  reputation  for 
deadly  malaria.  Whether  we  are  unwise  or  not,  certain 
it  is  that  good  fortune  is  giving  us  faultless  weather,  and 
in  Ravenna  the  coming  and  going  of  strangers  and  the 
chatter  of  sight-seers  would  be  sadly  out  of  character 
now  in  the  long  afternoon  of  its  desertion  and  decay. 

To  saunter  in  its  grass-grown  streets  and  tarry  in 
the  solemn  retirement  of  its  hoary  edifices,  undisturbed 
by  the  idle  and  the  undevout,  invites  one's  imagination 
to  play  at  leisure  over  the  long  backward  stretch  of 
its  kaleidoscopic  history  and  to  revert  to  the  mag- 
nificence of  its  prime  when  it  was  a  mighty  seaport,  seat 
of  the  Adriatic  fleet,  an  archiepiscopal  see  and  an 
imperial  residence.  Now  the  sea  that  once  washed  its 
opulent  wharves  and  piers  has  withdrawn  from  it,  its 
teeming  harbor  is  silted  up  by  the  wide-reaching  deposits 
of  the  Po,  and  only  a  sluggish  canal  some  miles  in 
length  connects  the  city  with  its  retreating  shore-line. 
If  in  its  changed  life  of  to-day  there  is  a  centre  of  trade, 
an  animated  gathering  place  for  the  inhabitants,  we  have 
not  seen  it,  nor  do  we  seek  it.  It  would  be  to  break 
the  spell  of  the  contemplative  revery  in  which  it  seems 
to  sit  and  dream  through  the  years. 

At  noon  of  a  true  June  day  a  little  boy  opened  for 
us  the  wicket  in  the  rural  enclosure  that  now  surrounds 
the  tomb  of  Theodoric,  with  its  ponderous  dome  cut 
from  a  single  gigantic  block  of  stone.  It  stands  beyond 
the  city  gates  and  lay  bathed  in  pure  sunshine  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  still  green  garden  of  low-growing  things 
that  offered  little  obstruction  to  light  and  warmth. 
Among  the  shrubs  a  subdued  twittering  could  be  heard, 
sweet,  low  notes  conversationally  murmured.  The  little 
guide  smiled  at  a  question  proffered  and  showed  a 


THE    SHORE    OF   THE   ADRIATIC        235 

friendly  knowledge  of  these  gentle  tenants.  Yes,  they 
were  nightingales ;  he  knew  the  nests,  but  they  must  not 
be  approached  now.  The  mothers  were  busy  with  their 
young.  Here  they  could  breed  undisturbed.  Earlier  in 
the  spring,  then,  when  the  unbroken  moonlight  lay 
reflected  upon  this  ancient  dome,  their  delicious  melody 
filled  the  night.  For  such  a  rapture  would  it  not  be 
worth  while  to  brave  for  once  the  lurking  miasma  of  this 
plain  ? 

Once  the  lower  arches  of  Theodoric's  resting-place 
stood  in  dank  pools  of  stagnant  water,  but  now  the  firm 
ground  looks  innocent  enough.  At  any  rate  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  know  that  the  birds  had  a  friend  and  ally  in  the 
sturdy  little  son  of  the  custodian.  Within,  the  unten- 
anted  structure  was  swept  and  garnished.  Centuries  ago 
pious  Romanists  scattered  his  unhallowed  dust,  that  they 
might  sanctify  his  resting-place  to  their  own  form  of 
worship,  and  no  one  knows  what  wind  dispersed  the  ashes 
of  the  mighty  Gothic  king  before  whom  thousands  once 
cowered.  But  here,  year  after  year,  do  nightingales  chant 
his  requiem. 

What  conscientious  students  study  most  in  Ravenna 
is,  of  course,  the  mosaics.  Not  being  conscientious,  I  only 
sit  before  them  and  enjoy  them  as  a  revelation  of  rich, 
harmonious  color.  Where  dull  gold  mixes  with  deep 
blue,  which  melts  into  peacock  green,  it  can  yield  a  pleas- 
ure quite  apart  from  that  afforded  by  the  anxious  identi- 
fication of  attenuated,  goggle-eyed  figures  and  bewildering 
symbols.  But  neither  would  I  be  flippantly  disrespect- 
ful toward  the  researches  of  those  wiser  and  more  serious 
than  I.  Certainly,  there  must  be  a  deep  interest  in  tracing 
the  development  of  that  art  which  grew  up  here  without 
the  overshadowing  influence  of  the  presence  of  famous 
Greek  and  Roman  buildings,  or  the  proximity  of  pagan 
temples  to  be  despoiled,  and  which  has  left  us  such  a 


236  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

curious  mixture  from  the  Roman,  Gothic  and  Byzantine 
periods. 

With  addition  and  interchange  (  for,  robbing  Peter 
to  pay  Paul,  certain  things  have  been  rifled  from  one 
church  to  add  to  the  adornments  of  another)  it  is  pos- 
sible to  look  at  the  relics  of  the  fifth  century  in  contrast 
with  the  smooth  prettiness  of  Guido  Reni,  and  the  occa- 
sional mingling  of  Christian  and  pagan  representation 
must  cause  a  smile.  For  instance,  there  is  a  baptism  of 
Christ,  in  which  the  river  god  of  the  Jordan  figures  as  a 
spectator,  and  in  one  little  church  Abraham  and  Sarah 
sit  at  table  decorously  entertaining  the  three  angels, 
while  not  far  off  a  bit  of  Greek  relief  shows  the  shell- 
bedecked  throne  of  Neptune  and  its  attendant  genii. 
Daniel,  too,  from  the  lion's  den  may  gaze  across  at  the 
apotheosis  of  a  Roman  emperor. 

But  though  the  churches  are  many,  one  could  hardly 
spare  a  glimpse  at  least  of  each,  and  always  there  is  the 
temptation  to  stop  and  follow  the  leaf  design  of  a  capital, 
or  smile  over  the  peculiarities  of  animals  and  birds 
evolved  by  a  sixth  century  imagination.  But  at  last  one 
always  returns  to  the  Mausoleum  of  Galla  Placidia,  where 
in  the  tempered  light  all  those  harmonies  of  color  spoken 
of  before  give  one  renewed  happiness.  The  single  altar 
is  of  oriental  alabaster,  constructed  so  that  lights  may  be 
placed  within  to  throw  a  soft  radiance  through  the  exquisite 
translucence  of  the  stone.  The  enormous  sarcophagus 
of  Galla  Placidia,  in  which  one  fancies  her  as  still  seated, 
upright  and  rigid,  towers  above  those  on  either  side  of 
her,  where  repose  two  of  the  Roman  emperors.  Curious 
to  record,  a  pair  of  humbler  size,  and  at  a  respectful 
distance,  contain  the  ashes  of  two  tutors  to  the  imperial 
family.  It  is  enough  to  make  the  least  serious  ponder 
upon  the  mutability  of  earthly  things,  to  remember  that 
in  spite  of  the  power  and  the  pomp  of  Rome,  the  impe- 


IAVENNA.      GARDEN  OF  PALAZZO  RASPONI. 


UNIVERSITY 
01 

; 


THE    SHORE    OF   THE    ADRIATIC        237 

rial  coffins  grouped  round  Galla  Placidia  are  the  only 
ones  still  standing  where  they  were  first  deposited. 

In  the  cathedral  is  the  ivory  throne  of  Saint  Max- 
imian,  whose  beautiful  mellow-toned  surface  it  is  a  pleas- 
ure for  the  eye  to  rest  upon,  and  this  sacred  edifice  is  the 
sepulchral  repository  of  so  many  great  fathers  of  the 
church  that  nine  reverend  bishops  have  been  obliged  to 
share  a  single  sarcophagus  under  the  high  altar. 

At  the  museo  there  is  much  to  occupy  those  untram- 
meled  by  time.  I  liked  the  poetical  proximity  of  the 
decretals  of  Boniface  VIII  to  the  wooden  coffin  in  which 
the  remains  of  his  great  enemy  were  found,  but  I  lingered 
longest  beside  the  monument  upon  which  is  the  recum- 
bent figure  of  that  beautiful  and  gracious  young  warrior 
who  since  his  last  battle  lies  in  such  serene  repose.  A  few 
years  ago  he  had  another  name,  but  I  trust  it  may  be 
that  he  is  truly  Guidarello  Guidarelli,  that  hero  of 
Ravenna  around  whose  name  such  romance  clings. 

Southward  from  Ravenna,  following  the  seashore, 
stretch  the  long  lines  of  the  Pineta,  that  storied  pine 
wood  haunted  by  spectral  shapes  of  the  past.  But  only 
at  night  can  they  now  venture  to  pace  beneath  its  shelter, 
for  if  ever  in  the  daytime  it  furnished  a  shade  sufficiently 
sombre,  it  is  now  too  cheerful,  too  hospitable  to  sun  and 
breeze  to  harbor  ghostly  frequenters.  I  do  not  like  to 
hear  it  called  "ruined."  Whatever  ravages  frost  and  fire 
may  have  inflicted  upon  it  are  not  evident  now,  though 
it  is  thinned  of  many  trees,  and  it  is  as  sweet  a  place  to 
idle  away  happy  hours  in  as  may  be  found.  The  plumes 
of  stone-pines  expand  in  the  warm  sunshine  overhead 
and  pungent  delicious  odors  rise  from  the  varied  under- 
growth beneath.  A  slow-moving  stream,  with  low  dyked 
banks  grown  over  with  green,  finds  its  way  to  the  sea 
here,  and  in  its  course  mirrors  the  trees  on  its  margin. 

By  starlight  one  might,  perhaps,  meet  the  brooding 


238  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

figure  of  Dante,  who  was  wont  to  walk  here  in  the  last 
years  of  his  life,  coming  out  to  the  stillness  of  these 
woods  from  the  asylum  of  that  noble  and  friendly  house 
which  honored  itself  by  affording  him  protection.  It  is 
said  that  the  one  member  of  that  family  whom  he  has 
made  all  men  since  love  and  pity,  Francesca  da  Polenta, 
then  dead,  had  been  known  to  him  earlier  in  her  innocent 
and  winning  girlhood,  and  it  was  at  this  time  that  the 
lines  which  have  made  her  immortal  were  written  by  the 
great  poet  and  read  by  the  grief-stricken  father.  A  tablet 
opposite  Dante's  tomb  now  somewhat  uncertainly  marks 
a  fragment  of  wall  said  to  have  been  part  of  the  palace 
of  the  Polentani,  but  neither  in  Ravenna  nor  in  Rimini 
is  there  much  left  that  one  may  identify  as  connected 
with  that  piteous  history. 

When  we  left  Ravenna  it  was  to  drive  on  through 
Forli  to  Faenza,  which  we  had  thought  might  be  easily 
accomplished  in  an  afternoon.  But  it  is  never  well  to 
begin  such  a  transit  in  the  afternoon,  lest  you  find  on  the 
route  what  will  cause  you  to  mourn  the  day's  brevity. 
When  the  Adriatic  withdrew  from  Ravenna  the  country 
about  it  gradually  became  a  desolate,  unhealthy  marsh, 
but  this  has  since  been  reclaimed  by  draining  and  dyking 
and  now  forms  vast  rice-fields.  The  road,  lifted  to  quite 
a  high  level  above,  gives  extended  views  over  them,  and 
at  this  time  numbers  of  women  are  at  work  in  them, 
although  the  labor  is  as  ill  suited  as  possible  to  our  sex. 

Strange  amorphous  beings  they  appeared,  women  to 
the  waist  line  and  men  below.  Instead  of  inventing  a 
suitable  and  comfortable  costume  for  the  exigencies  of 
their  work,  they  have  preferred  to  retain  the  usual  bodice 
and  add  to  it  unmitigated  masculine  trousers,  which  in 
turn  they  roll  up  to  the  knees  as  they  stand  in  the  water 
among  the  rice-stalks.  A  kerchief  knotted  over  the 
head  completes  their  attire.  Beside  the  road,  opposite 


THE   SHORE   OF   THE   ADRIATIC        239 

the  place  where  a  number  of  them  were  working,  stood 
a  row  of  baskets,  each  one  with  the  owner's  temporarily 
discarded  petticoats  neatly  folded  lying  upon  it,  together 
with  an  umbrella.  These  umbrellas,  by  the  way,  are  not 
the  dark,  monotonous  articles  they  have  become  with  us. 
Pea-green  ones  are  common ;  salmon  color  is  to  be  seen, 
and  blue  ones  often  have  gay  striped  borders  six  inches 
deep  at  the  edge.  The  workers  did  not  look  depressed 
in  mind  or  lacking  in  health ;  on  the  contrary,  strong  and 
in  good  spirits ;  and  the  sound  of  their  cheerful  chatter 
followed  us  for  some  distance  along  the  highway. 

It  was  curious  to  observe  how  mile  after  mile 
brought  the  level  of  the  road  and  that  of  the  surrounding 
fields  nearer  together  till  at  length  they  met,  and  the  rice- 
fields  ceased.  Villas  began  to  look  out  between  groves 
of.  trees,  and  everywhere  were  stretches  of  grain  and  lines 
of  mulberry-trees.  We  met  long  processions  of  slow- 
moving  carts,  heaped  with  big  empty  baskets,  on  their 
return  journey  from  some  further  town  whither  the  busi- 
ness or  silk  culture  had  taken  them;  and  at  length  we 
rolled  into  Forli,  that  little  city  looking  so  peacefully 
industrious  now,  but  once  the  scene  of  as  exciting  and 
romantic  a  bit  of  history  as  can  be  found  in  Italian  annals 
of  the  fifteenth  century.  Here  was  the  stage  upon  which 
the  tempestuous  drama  of  Caterina  Sforza's  life  was 
played,  that  typical  heroine  of  her  time,  wise  and  astute, 
beautiful  and  loving,  cruel  and  vengeful. 

The  wide-spreading  piazza,  with  the  beautiful 
campanile  of  San  Mercuriale  springing  from  its  southern 
side,  lay  mildly  basking  in  the  afternoon  sun,  with  as 
placid  an  air  as  though  it  had  never  run  red  with  blood 
when  Caterina  tortured  the  murderers  of  her  lover  there. 
Beyond  it  stretched  a  street  whose  long  arcaded  curve 
terminated  at  the  Porta  Ravaldino  and  the  famous  cita- 
del. That,  too,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  its  belligerent 


240  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

days  and  to  have  sleepily  settled  a  little  further  into  the 
soft  turf  that  surrounded  it,  where  a  few  goats  lazily 
cropped  the  fresh  grass-blades  and  great  linden-trees  in 
full  bloom  filled  the  air  with  their  fragrance. 

Sending  the  carriage  to  wait  for  us  at  the  inn,  we 
strolled  from  point  to  point  and  at  last  sought  out  the 
quiet  church  of  San  Biagio,  in  a  moss-grown  corner  to 
which  many  turnings  brought  us.  We  desired  to  see 
Caterina  portrayed  in  its  frescoes.  It  was  closed  and  at 
first  our  knockings  brought  no  one,  but  a  louder  and 
more  prolonged  assault  finally  roused  an  old  woman  who 
came  forth,  full  of  duckings  and  apologies.  On  receiving 
our  eager  instructions  and  a  few  small  coins,  she  at  once 
agreed  to  go  for  the  sacristan  and  ambled  off  at  a  rate  of 
speed  astonishing  in  one  of  her  years.  The  sacristan 
presently  appeared,  bearing  the  heavy  key,  and  let  us  in 
just  in  time  to  catch  the  last  rays  of  light  that  would 
serve  to  show  us  Palmezzano's  Madonna,  adored  by  the 
whole  Riario  family. 

We  stood  some  minutes  looking  at  the  picture,  and 
as  we  were  turning  from  it  my  eye  fell  upon  a  singularly 
beautiful  tomb  in  a  niche  in  the  opposite  wall.  The 
sacristan  helped  me  to  pick  out  the  half-intelligible 
inscription  and  finished  out  the  story.  A  nobleman  of 
a  famous  family  had  a  young  and  beautiful  wife.  He 
idolized  her,  but  he  listened  to  evil  tongues  and  believed 
her  untrue  to  him ;  so  in  the  fashion  of  those  days, 
when  no  one  doubted  that  justice  and  retribution  lay  in 
the  hands  of  the  husband,  he  put  an  end  to  her  by 
poison. 

After  she  was  dead  he  found  that  his  suspicions 
were  unfounded.  She  had  been  cruelly  wronged,  and  in 
all  her  gentleness  and  innocence  he  had  murdered  her. 
What  could  he  do  ?  He  built  for  her  the  most  beauti- 
ful tomb  that  could  be  devised  and  upon  its  cold  marble 


RAVENNA.      THE  PINETA. 


THE    SHORE    OF   THE    ADRIATIC        241 

engraved  the  praise  of  all  her  virtue  and  her  loveliness. 
So  there  she  lies,  a  slender,  girlish  figure  —  she  was  only 
twenty-two.  Her  sweet,  childlike  face  is  turned  a  little 
to  one  side;  her  pretty  arms,  with  the  puffed  sleeves 
stopping  just  above  the  elbow,  extended  and  the  slender 
hands  crossed;  her  little  feet  just  showing  below  the 
hem  of  her  brocaded  gown.  All  about  and  below  her 
exquisite  designs,  garlands  and  cherubs  and  curious 
devices  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

Her  husband  came  often  to  this  place  and  did  long 
and  bitter  penance  in  the  monastery  behind  the  church. 
What  were  his  thoughts  as  he  knelt  beside  the  monu- 
ment he  had  reared  ?  Did  he  live  to  grow  old,  with 
grief  and  remorse  ever  gnawing  at  his  heart  ?  I  have 
seen  his  portrait ;  at  least  I  hold  that  I  have,  and  I  shall 
take  care  not  to  prove  myself  in  the  wrong.  In  Venice, 
in  the  richest  private  collection  there  and  one  of  the 
richest  in  the  world,  hangs  the  portrait  of  a  man  some- 
what past  middle  age.  His  body  is  in  profile  and  the 
hands  are  raised  and  folded  in  prayer,  but  the  face, 
framed  in  its  gray  hair  and  beard,  looks  directly  out  of 
the  canvas  and  the  grave  eyes  meet  yours  with  the  fixed 
inscrutable  look  of  one  who  does  not  invite  compassion, 
nor  offer  to  share  with  any  one  the  secret  of  the  torture 
which  led  him  to  be  perpetuated  thus,  supplicating  the 
mercy  of  his  God. 


SIENA  AND   THE   PALIO 

"  O  gracious  city  well  beloved, 
Italian,  and  a  maiden  crowned, 
Siena,  my  feet  are  no  more  moved 
Toward  thy  strange-shapen  mountain  bound: 
But  my  heart  in  me  turns  and  moves, 
O  lady,  loveliest  of  my  loves, 
Toward  thee,  to  lie  before  thy  feet 
And  gaze  from  thy  fair  fountain  seat 
Up  the  sheer  street!" 

—  SWINBURNE.      Siena . 

HIS  little  city  so  endears  itself  to 
those  who  know  it  that  it  is  easy  to 
understand  the  feelings  of  people 
who,  coming  unsuspectingly  within 
the  circle  of  its  spell,  drop  gently 
from  the  nineteenth  century  to,  say, 
the  fifteenth,  and  stay  on  here  for 
years,  only  occasionally  visiting  the 
outer  world.  Of  such  I  know  a 
few  and  suspect  the  existence  of  many  more. 

There  is  a  gentle  English  lady  here,  for  example, 
who  is  the  guest  of  the  old  and  noble  family  of  the  Pic- 
colomini,  as  indeed  any  one  may  be  who  enters  the  pension 
which  occupies  one  of  its  ancestral  floors.  She  dwells 
with  her  books  and  her  piano  in  certain  rooms  of  their 
palace  whose  windows  command  one  of  the  fairest  pros- 
pects in  Tuscany;  and  I  know  of  nothing  pleasanter  of  a 


242 


SIENA   AND    THE    PALIO  243 

moonlight  night  which  is  working  its  magic  upon  the 
balustraded  terraces  below  and  the  shadowy  stretches  of 
garden,  field  and  hill  beyond,  than  to  listen  to  the  music 
with  which  she  adds  the  last  touch  of  feeling  and  poetry 
to  what  is  all  but  perfect  already.  She  is  so  diffident  that 
her  strains  must  be  listened  to  almost  by  stealth,  yet  once 
seated  at  her  instrument  she  cannot  withhold  herself,  but 
pours  her  heart  out,  and  the  indiscreet  keyboard  does  not 
keep  quite  all  her  secrets.  She  gives  many  hours  to  her 
playing.  She  walks  over  miles  of  beautiful  country. 
She  attends  the  fine  courses  of  lectures  that  one  may  here 
have  admittance  to,  and  she  has  such  kind  and  helpful 
relations  as  her  shyness  will  permit  with  those  Italians 
with  whom  she  comes  in  contact.  Perhaps  her  life  is  as 
useful,  as  well  as  happy,  here  as  it  could  be  anywhere.  It 
is  certain  that  if  one's  income  be  slender  one  may  live  on 
incredibly  little  in  Siena,  and  for  an  absurdly  small  sum 
even  become  the  temporary  proprietor  of  a  historic 
palazzo  and  a  train  of  servitors. 

Upon  this  visit  we  arrived  in  Siena  in  the  late  after- 
noon and  passed  from  the  little  railway  station  outside 
the  walls  into  the  warm,  dark  brown  ravines  of  its  streets, 
from  whose  narrow  windings  the  waning  light  was  already 
screened,  though  still  touching  the  roofs  and  towers 
above.  There  are  no  gaps  between  the  unbroken  ranks 
of  these  stone  and  brick  palaces  of  five  hundred  years 
ago,  and  the  solid  fronts,  with  no  meaner  and  lower 
buildings  between,  follow  the  waving  lines  which  the 
streets  and  piazzas  take.  So  we  threaded  them  till  from 
the  point  where  we  entered  we  came  to  the  opposite  edge 
of  the  compactly  built  city  and  emerged  upon  the  little 
piazza  we  sought,  from  the  boundary  of  whose  parapet 
the  ground  fell  away  to  a  tangle  of  gardens  and  greenery 
that  stretched  to  the  outer  wall  of  the  town.  Here  stood 
our  pensiony  well  exposed  to  the  air  and  sun. 


244  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

Upon  two  sides  lies  a  garden  with  high,  closely 
trimmed  hedges  of  bay  and  gravel  walks  between  beds 
of  flowers.  Along  the  walls  are  tall  shrubs  of  the 
camelia  covered  with  flowers,  not  one  or  two  here  and 
there,  but  hundreds  of  brilliant  blossoms,  lavish  masses 
of  color,  covering  the  bushes  and  carpeting  the  ground 
with  fallen  petals.  This  alluring  pleasance,  however, 
belongs  to  the  lower  story,  and  we  can  only  survey  it 
from  above  with  vain  desire,  as  fores  fieri  are  not  invited 
to  enter  it.  I  fancy,  however,  that  the  owner,  who  is 
described  as  a  sort  of  parsimonious  recluse,  does  not 
enjoy  it  half  as  much  as  we  do  who  hover  above  it, 
hanging  out  over  our  broad  window-sills  in  the  morning 
or  watching  the  glimmering  of  a  thousand  fireflies  as 
they  flit  among  its  alleys  at  night. 

Oh,  what  a  peaceful,  lovely  bit  of  Tuscany  lies 
before  these  same  windows !  First  there  are  glimpses 
on  either  side  of  old  palaces,  with  their  terraces  and 
gardens,  half  concealed  by  grape  trellises  or  twisted 
fig-trees.  Then  come  unenclosed  vegetable  gardens, 
broken  into  tiny  patches  or  irregular  rows  of  one  herb 
or  another  and  dotted  with  their  shallow  open  water 
supplies — circular  basins  of  stone  and  cement  from 
which  the  water  is  laboriously  dipped  and  poured  upon 
the  beds  when  showers  are  withheld.  Next  is  the  gray 
old  city  wall,  wandering  up  and  down  over  the  irregular 
contour  of  the  land,  and  beyond,  sunny  rolling  hills  clothed 
with  vines  and  olives,  while  smooth  roads  travel  tempt- 
ingly off  into  the  country,  passing  an  occasional  farm- 
house or  monastery. 

Within  our  pension,  the  Casa  Rigoni,  is  quiet  com- 
fort and  much  human  interest;  indeed,  a  diverting 
volume  might  be  written  solely  upon  foreign  pensions, 
for  they  abound  in  material  for  the  observer.  One 
feels  safe  in  calling  this  the  best  in  Siena,  so  pleasant  is 


SIENA.     THE  MANGIA  TOWER. 


SIENA   AND   THE   PALIO  245 

one's  stay  made,  so  helpful  and  kindly  an   interest  is 
taken  in  one's  projects  and  desires. 

Out  of  doors  a  sense  of  restfulness  and  satisfaction 
pervades  one  and  it  is  impossible  to  grow  weary  of 
strolling  about  the  streets.  There  is  no  need  to  search 
for  interesting  bits  of  antiquity,  for  no  search  is  neces- 
sary.  Siena  is  an  unspoiled  bit  of  the  mediaeval,  and 
one  is  never  in  danger  of  coming  upon  a  tasteless 
restoration  or  an  intrusive  modern  addition.  Glancing 
up  as  you  pass  along,  you  frequently  notice  the  upper 
stories  of  its  solemn  old  palaces  connected  by  the  bridge 
of  an  arched  passage,  partly  for  support  to  their  height, 
but  also  for  convenience  in  crossing  from  one  to 
the  other ;  and  in  the  old  days  they  served  a  special 
purpose.  It  appears  that  the  sumptuary  laws  were  then 
of  the  strictest,  and  the  ladies  of  Siena  could  wear  none 
but  plain  and  sombre-colored  garments  in  the  street, 
while  the  law-makers  might  display  any  rich  expense  of 
costume  they  chose.  It  was  unendurable!  Then  the 
curfew  rang  two  hours  after  sunset,  which  would 
be  half-past  seven  for  part  of  the  year,  and  no  one 
must  be  in  the  streets  thereafter.  But  the  Sienese 
were  fond  of  gayety  and  bright  clothes  (gente  vana,  as 
Dante  unkindly  called  them),  so  putting  on  their 
silken  robes  and  dazzling  jewels,  they  gathered  from 
long  distances  at  a  ball,  say  at  one  of  the  Piccolomini 
palaces,  crossing  bridge  after  bridge  between  the  houses 
and  so  not  once  descending  to  the  forbidden  level  of 
the  streets. 

The  Piccolomini  coat  of  arms  is  the  one  seen  often- 
est  here,  carved  on  the  facades  of  the  old  palaces :  five 
crescents.  Once  there  were  six,  but  it  seems  that  at  one 
time  the  infamous  Saracens  got  an  arm  of  Saint  John  into 
their  possession.  The  Piccolomini  determined  to  recover 
it  and  finally  offered  one  of  their  crescents  in  exchange 


246  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

for  it.  This  was  accepted  and  now  the  arm  reposes  in  a 
casket  in  the  town  hall,  while  the  Saracens  have  ever  since 
flaunted  the  Piccolomini  crescent  on  their  banner. 
Besides  the  carved  shields  these  palaces  are  enriched  with 
beautiful  wrought-iron  ornaments  along  their  fronts: 
lanterns,  dragons,  rows  of  torch-holders.  The  wrought- 
iron  industry  is  carried  on  here  still  and  the  tinkle  of  it 
greets  the  returned  traveler  with  its  pleasant  familiar 

sound  from  many  an  open  door- 
way as  he  passes  through  the 
streets. 

One  morning  we  walked 
toward  the  cathedral,  winding 
our  way  past  certain  old  palazzi, 
bits  of  which  we  desired  to  pho- 
tograph, for  example,  that  of  the 
Magnifico,  that  amiable  Sienese 
tyrant  who  had  such  playful 
ways,  one  of  his  pastimes  being 
PICCOLOMINI  ARMS.  to  roll  the  largest  rocks  he 

could  move  down  the  steep  side 

of  Monte  Amiata,  regardless  of  those  of  his  subjects  who 
might  be  passing  on  the  roads  below.  The  curved  front 
of  his  dismembered  and  crumbling  old  palace  still  bears 
some  of  the  most  beautiful  wrought-iron  work  in  Siena, 
in  the  form  of  torch-holders. 

Approaching  the  cathedral  from  its  lowest  point  we 
stopped  to  notice  the  fine  spring  into  the  clouds  that  its 
walls  take  at  this  corner,  and  then  fell  to  idling  before  the 
door  of  a  cutter  of  gravestones.  A  new  one  had  just 
been  finished.  Neatly  set  in  the  arched  top  of  the  slab 
was  the  small  photographed  vignette  of  a  young  girl,  a 
plain,  wholesome-faced  daughter  of  the  people,  and 
below  was  a  long  inscription.  How  different  is  the  Ital- 
ian unreserve  from  our  repelling  reticence !  They  take  the 


SIENA   AND    THE    PALIO  247 

whole  world  into  their  confidence  even  upon  their  tomb- 
stones. The  legend  on  this  one  first  dwelt  upon  the 
charms  and  virtues  of  the  original  of  the  portrait,  and 
then  proceeded  to  describe  her  as  seated  one  morning 
with  her  work  at  the  window  of  her  happy  home,  unsus- 
pectingly engaged  in  blissful  anticipations  of  the  future, 
when  she  was  suddenly  killed  by  a  stroke  of  lightning. 
This  stone,  it  continued,  was  raised  to  her  memory  by  her 

parents  and  also  by  Alfred  D ,  thus  shockingly  cut 

short  in  his  contemplation  of  the  imminent  joys  of  matri- 
mony. The  sun  slanting  in  lay  in  a  shining  yellow 
bar  across  Alfred's  name  and  seemed  to  support  him  in 
calling  upon  the  world  to  join  in  his  artless  and 
impassioned  regret. 

But  the  sun  does  not  always  shine  in  Siena,  and  if 
when  it  does  the  best  hay  is  to  be  made  by  rambling  in 
the  streets,  the  next  best  is  to  love  and  delight  in  the 
pictures  of  the  Sienese  masters.  On  cold  wet  afternoons, 
with  the  help  of  the  Golden  Urn,  we  pursue  them  into 
out-of-the-way  churches  and  concealed  chapels,  or  we 
beguile  the  custodian  of  the  academia  into  leaving  us  to 
occupy  the  solitary  halls  of  the  chilly  little  gallery  till 
long  after  the  hour  for  closing.  He  sits  tolerantly  in  the 
vestibule  with  sometimes  one  or  two  of  his  prattling 
children  to  keep  him  company,  and  does  not  grow  impa- 
tient since  he  has  learned  that  we  do  not  forget  to  reward 
him  for  thus  indulging  us. 

Sometimes,  still  in  the  pursuit  of  pictures,  we  summon 
a  whole  neighborhood  to  our  aid.  One  morning  we  were 
bent  upon  seeing  a  certain  Madonna  by  Neroccio  dei 
Landi,  and  when  at  last  our  vetturino,  climbing  up  a  steep 
stone-paved  vicolo,  had  found  the  place,  it  was  locked. 
He  left  us  in  the  carriage  at  an  unpleasant  angle  upon 
the  uneven  flags  while  he  went  first  to  inquire  where  the 
key  could  be  found  and  afterwards  to  look  for  the  custo- 


248  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

dian.  The  first  being  accomplished  with  the  assistance 
of  all  the  population  in  sight,  he  disappeared  round  a 
corner,  and  presently  a  rosy,  breathless  girl  came  hurry- 
ing with  the  key  and  we  were  admitted  into  the  somewhat 
mouldy  little  sanctuary.  We  were  then  conveyed  by 
winding  ways  to  a  tiny  upper  chamber  where  upon  the 
wall  hung  our  picture. 

Was  the  little  canvas  worth  all  this  effort?  Without 
a  doubt ;  for  to  devotees  of  Neroccio  dei  Landi  no  trouble 
seems  too  great  when  searching  out  the  rare  works  of 
this  master.  Difficulty  but  spurs  pursuit,  and  when  later 
on  the  same  day,  in  the  formal  splendor  of  one  of  the 
most  solid  and  magnificent  of  the  Sienese  palaces,  we 
found  ourselves  almost  baffled,  we  but  sought  the  more 
vigorously.  They  were  there,  the  two  little  pictures  we 
desired,  yet  they  looked  not  down  from  the  walls  as  we 
walked  through  room  after  room  hung  with  indifferent 
canvases.  There  was  no  catalogue.  The  custodian  had 
never  heard  of  Neroccio  dei  Landi,  but  at  last,  resting 
upon  the  floor,  half  concealed  by  a  marble  carving,  we 
espied  them.  There  could  be  no  mistake:  examples  of 
a  beautiful  individual  art,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  con- 
fusing them. 

Neroccio  was  satisfied  to  produce  the  same  virginal 
type  over  and  over,  with  little  variation  of  surrounding 
or  accompaniment.  His  sweet  Madonnas,  fair  and  dove- 
like,  winning  but  unmoved,  look  out  at  us  from  their 
pure  pale  coloring  with  an  expression  not  rapt  and  yet 
unworldly.  They  are  hardly  conscious  of  the  child, 
either  sleeping  or  eagerly  stretching  forth  its  hands  to  be 
caressed.  They  dwell  in  a  stainless  revery  apart  from 
all  the  troublous  ebb  and  flow  of  life,  the  ignoble  goading 
of  earthly  motives,  and  they  seem  to  hold  the  secret  of  a 
peace  that  may  be  communicated  to  a  worshiper  who 
listens  long  and  lovingly. 


SIENA.      PALAZZO  GROTANELLI. 


SIENA   AND   THE    PALIO  249 

THE    PALIO. 

The  heat  of  midsummer  in  Siena  is  tempered  by 
winds  which  blow  freshly  across  the  city  so  that  one  may 
remain  late  enough  to  see  the  Palio,  its  important  festay 
without  risk  of  great  discomfort.  These  renowned  races 
were  instituted  many  hundred  years  ago  and  it  affords  the 
sentimental  traveler  deep  satisfaction  to  know  that  they 
are  still  kept  up  in  the  same  way,  with  customs  and 
costumes  unaltered,  and  as  the  city  itself  has  changed  less 
than  most  places  in  the  world,  everything  lends  itself  to 
the  illusion  that  we  have  been  privileged  to  step  back  and 
take  part  in  a  mediaeval  celebration. 

The  Sienese  early  dedicated  themselves  especially 
to  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  the  races  are  run  in  her  honor, 
so  that  they  have  a  pious  association  which  we  are  unac- 
customed to  connect  with  festivals  of  the  kind.  They 
take  place  twice  a  year,  on  the  second  of  July  and  the 
sixteenth  of  August,  the  latter  occasion  being  the  more 
important  as  it  is  Assumption  Day,  and  so  the  high 
festival  of  the  Civitas  Virginis.  It  is  looked  forward  to 
during  the  whole  year,  and  the  night  before  scores  of 
bonfires  burn  on  the  hills  far  and  near. 

The  great  Piazza  del  Campo,  where  it  takes  place, 
is  nearly  semicircular  in  shape,  resembling  a  cockle-shell 
and  sloping  gently  from  the  curving  rim  toward  the 
straight  side,  in  the  centre  of  which  stands  the  municipal 
palace,  one  of  the  beautiful  buildings  of  the  world. 
The  whole  is  stone-paved,  with  lines  of  lighter  color 
converging  toward  the  palace,  which  helps  to  carry  out 
the  effect.  It  is  called  a  third  of  a  mile  in  circumfer- 
ence, and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  more  beautiful  and 
picturesque  piazza ;  but  its  unevenness,  its  sudden  curves 
and  steep  descents,  make  it  probably  the  worst  race- 
course in  the  world.  At  the  most  dangerous  points 


250  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

mattresses  are  laid  down  to  break  the  fall  of  horse  or 
rider,  for  a  race  is  seldom  run  without  accidents.  It  is 
reassuring,  however,  to  remember  that  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  although  permitting  the  exhilaration  of  danger, 
does  not  allow  a  rider  to  be  killed  outright. 

The  city  is  divided  into  seventeen  contrade  or 
districts,  each  called  by  the  name  of  some  animal  or 
natural  object,  and  each  having  its  own  church  and 
patron  saint,  as  well  as  its  special  banners  and  emblems. 
Of  these,  ten  may  compete  each  year,  but  curiously 
enough  not  with  their  own  horses.  When  from  the 
horses  offered  ten  have  been  selected  as  nearly  corre- 
sponding in  speed  as  possible,  they  are  divided  among 
the  contrade  by  lot,  so  that  no  contrada  knows  till  about 
a  week  before  the  great  day  whether  it  is  to  have  a  good 
or  a  bad  horse. 

The  jockeys  are  professionals  and  as  soon  as  they 
are  secured  the  struggle  begins.  One  regrets  to  hear 
that  there  was  shameless  cheating  in  old  times,  and 
whether  the  Blessed  Virgin  be  honored  or  not  in  the 
observance,  that  custom  is  also  kept  up.  Each  contrada 
watches  its  fantino  day  and  night,  and  every  possible 
attempt  is  made  to  corrupt  or  buy  him  up.  Somtimes  two 
contrade  hate  a  third  so  warmly  that  they  agree  to 
prevent  its  winning,  even  if  they  have  to  renounce  the 
prize  for  themselves.  When  the  race  begins  each  jockey 
has  a  stout  whip,  and  he  is  at  liberty  to  use  it  on  the 
other  jockeys  if  he  chooses  as  well  as  upon  his  own  horse. 
Thus,  for  example,  if  the  Tortoise  and  the  Wolf  have 
conspired  not  to  let  the  Caterpillar  win,  the  jockeys 
of  the  first  two  have  been  known  to  fall  upon  the 
third  the  moment  the  rope  dropped  and  beat  him  till 
he  fell  from  his  horse.  Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  there 
are  many  elements  that  make  this  race  one  of  especial 
uncertainty. 


SIENA   AND    THE    PALIO  251 

Very  droll  stories  are  told  of  some  of  the  horses. 
It  seems  that  there  was  one  wiry  little  steed  who  grew 
old  in  the  service  and  won  a  number  of  banners  for  his 
contraday  but  he  was  small  and  could  not  win  if  weighted 
with  a  rider.  Accordingly  the  contrada  who  secured  him 
had  a  bridle  made  of  pasteboard,  painted  and  prepared 
to  look  like  leather.  His  fantino  was  instructed  to  be 
thrown  as  soon  after  the  beginning  of  the  race  as  possible 
and  then  the  old  horse  won  the  race  alone,  for  if 
opposing  jockeys  caught  at  his  bridle  it  broke  and  came 
off  in  their  hands.  There  are  several  trials  or  prove 
before  the  final  race,  but  for  the  reasons  already  given  a 
horse  who  has  won  easily  at  uprova  or  two  may  fail  in 
the  end. 

Although  only  ten  districts  compete  for  the  prize, 
all  take  part  in  the  preliminary  parade,  and  two  days 
beforehand  the  banners  of  all  the  seventeen  are  taken  to 
the  cathedral,  where  they  are  hung  up  till  the  time  for 
using  them,  and  their  brilliant  colors  light  up  the  dim 
solemnity  of  the  interior  with  an  unwonted  glow. 

To  see  the  races  in  the  best  way  it  is  well  to  secure 
a  favorable  situation  beforehand,  and  this  our  excellent 
host  had  providently  arranged  for  us  in  a  private  palazzo 
carefully  chosen  for  a  cool  exposure  and  the  best  view  of 
the  proceedings  possible.  It  was  therefore  on  the  upper 
curve  of  the  piazza,  opposite  the  Palazzo  Pubblico  and 
well  in  view  of  the  starting  point,  while  opposite  the 
exquisite  shaft  of  the  Mangia  tower  soared  skyward. 
To  us  it  was  a  curious  thing  that  we,  mere  forestieri, 
should  be  admitted  to  a  private  house  and  permitted  to 
occupy  one  of  its  bedchambers  for  a  money  considera- 
tion, especially  as  our  host  on  this  occasion  was  a  person 
of  wealth  according  to  the  standard  of  Siena.  To  reach 
the  apartment  reserved  for  us  we  ascended  a  broad  stair- 
case and  entered  a  vast  cool  salony  whose  stone  floor  was 


252  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

overlaid  with  the  sort  of  cement  imitation  of  mosaic  that 
modern  Italians  are  fond  of. 

The  light  which  would  have  entered  from  several 
tall  windows  was  carefully  tempered,  and  there  was  no 
crowding  of  furniture ;  all  was  formal,  spare,  dignified. 
From  it  we  passed  into  a  room  where  several  members 
of  the  family,  carefully  dressed,  were  grouped  to  look  on 
at  the  spectacle,  and  this  opened  into  the  one  prepared 
for  us,  which,  as  I  said,  was  one  of  the  family  bedrooms. 
Overlooking  the  piazza  was  its  beautiful  mullioned 
window,  with  slender  stone  columns  whose  capitals  time 
had  partly  worn  away ;  but  here  all  beauty  as  well  as 
antiquity  ended.  The  interior  was  modern  and  tasteless. 
The  walnut  furniture  was  new  and  pompous,  the  wall 
decoration  hopelessly  ugly,  and  the  ornaments  and  frip- 
pery of  the  dressing-table  still  more  so.  The  only 
pictures  were  two  very  bad  and  brilliant  copies  of  sacred 
subjects. 

It  was  six  o'clock  and  the  sun  had  just  left  the 
piazza.  This  is  the  hour  of  the  Palio,  that  the  heat  of 
the  August  day  may  be  avoided  as  far  as  possible.  We 
had  made  our  way  with  difficulty  through  the  masses  of 
people  in  the  streets  so  as  to  take  our  places  early  and 
watch  the  assembling  of  the  crowd.  We  had  encoun- 
tered very  few  English  or  American  tourists,  but 
thousands  of  people  gather  into  the  city  from  all  the 
country  round,  and  they  were  now  pouring  into  the 
piazza  from  every  opening.  On  the  day  preceding  the 
race  tiers  of  seats  are  built  up  against  the  lower  stories 
of  the  buildings  and  draped  with  cloth.  Just  within,  a 
course  is  prepared  by  bringing  earth  and  sand  to  the 
piazza,  tamping  and  watering  it  and  erecting  temporary 
wooden  barriers  as  its  inner  boundary.  Thus  the  whole 
becomes  a  great  amphitheatre. 

Sweeping  round  it  are  the  unbroken  ranks  of  the 


SIENA   AND    THE    PALIO  253 

dusky  old  palaces,  their  balconies  and  windows  hung 
with  bright  draperies,  rugs  and  embroideries  and  filled 
with  the  aristocratic  inhabitants  of  Siena.  Even  the  roofs 
are  fringed  with  people  gazing  down.  Of  the  crowd 
below,  those  who  can  pay  for  the  raised  seats  take  them, 
those  who  cannot  must  stay  behind  the  barriers  and 
strenuous  are  the  efforts  to  get  a  place  immediately  against 
them.  But  until  the  last  moment  enclosure  and  course 
are  alike  full  of  moving  people.  Those  who  have  seats 
for  sale  lay  hands  upon  the  passers-by  and  adjure  them 
to  buy  places  before  it  is  too  late.  Candy  men  run 
hither  and  thither  with  sweetmeats  and  great  is  the  sale 
of  toy  balloons  with  a  terrible  squeak.  Now  of  all  times 
is  the  occasion  to  see  the  leghorn  hats  peculiar  to  Siena ; 
wide-spreading,  often  of  exquisitely  fine  braid,  their  broad, 
pliant  brims  wave  in  the  breeze  and  take  all  sorts  of 
graceful  curves.  A  gay  taste  prevails  in  the  matter 
of  trimming,  quite  irrespective  of  the  age  or  condition  of 
stoutness  of  the  wearer.  Many  of  the  younger  women 
had  ambitiously  trimmed  theirs  freshly  for  thefesfa  with 
crisp  ribbons  and  soaring  plumes  and  flowers ;  but  I  liked 
better  the  antiquated  ones,  where  a  dear  old  contadina 
with  ample  waist  and  a  face  like  a  baked  apple,  would  have 
the  crown  of  her  hat,  owned  for  many  a  year,  surrounded 
with  a  flat  wreath  of  pink  roses  and  two  long  white  satin 
tails  hanging  far  down  her  skirt.  Under  the  brims  of 
these  one  could  detect  the  glitter  of  enormous  gold  ear- 
rings, hollow  of  course,  but  even  then  of  no  inconsider- 
able weight. 

Denser  and  denser  swarmed  the  crowd  in  the  piazza 
below  us  and  the  united  hum  of  their  voices  rose  as  from 
an  enormous  bee-hive.  The  ring  as  well  as  the  centre 
was  a  moving  mass  of  human  beings,  and  that  the  track 
could  ever  be  cleared  for  the  horses  looked  impossible. 
Suddenly  a  shot  from  a  diminutive  mortar  sounded  and 


254  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

a  preliminary  mild  roar  went  up  from  the  thousands  of 
throats.  A  line  of  carabinieri  in  their  handsome  uni- 
forms, mounted  on  fine  big  horses,  appeared  suddenly 
across  the  track,  filling  the  space  transversely.  They 
started  forward,  walking  their  horses  slowly  and  pushing 
the  crowd  before  them,  which  with  the  utmost  good 
nature  gradually  separated  to  mount  to  the  seats  or  retire 
behind  the  barriers,  through  openings  left  for  the  purpose, 
which  were  afterwards  closed  upon  them.  Then  the 
cavalry  went  around  the  ring  again  at  a  quick  trot,  and 
behold  the  space  free  for  the  parade !  The  noise  lulled 
slightly  for  a  few  moments  while  eager  expectation  awaited 
the  grand  entry.  Every  woman  of  the  thousands  gath- 
ered appeared  to  have  a  fan,  and  every  fan  waved  and 
palpitated  like  a  living  embodiment  of  its  owner's  agita- 
tion. The  surface  of  the  vast  assemblage  rippled  and 
undulated  with  their  fluttering  motion. 

Another  shot  from  the  mortar,1  another  shout,  and 
there  appeared  a  band  of  musicians  and  ,.  the  heralds 
blowing  their  long  silver  trumpets.  Very  slowly  they 
advanced,  followed  by  the  cortege  of ,  each  contrada: 
knights,  pages,  grooms  leading  the  race-horses,  the 
jockeys  riding  others,  attendants  and  standard-bearers. 
The  standard-bearers,  two  for  each  contrada^  went  through 
all  sorts  of  graceful  gyrations  with  their  banners,  keeping 
them  in  perpetual  motion,  flinging  them  high  into  the 
air  and  catching  them  as  they  came  down,  so  that  the 
whole  ring  became  a  joyous  moving  kaleidoscope  of 
brilliant  tints.  Only  here  does  one  see  such  beautiful 
and  various  flags.  The  costumes  are  not  mere  carnival 
imitations,  but  are  of  genuine  velvet,  silk  and  satin,  and 
the  armor  and  helmets  quite  superb. 

Then  came  the  famous  carroccio,  the  war  chariot  of 
Siena,  lofty,  drawn  by  four  horses  and  bearing  the  black 
and  white  flag  of  the  city,  and  the  cross,  held  by  men  in 


SIENA   AND    THE    PALIO  255 

armor.  Next  followed  the  carroccio  of  Florence,  for  the 
Sienese  never  forget  that,  a  matter  of  six  hundred 
years  ago,  at  the  mighty  battle  of  Monte  Aperto,  they 
triumphed  over  their  powerful  rival  and  humbled  her  in 
the  dust,  and  to  this  day  they  suspect  the  Florentines  of 
a  hidden  soreness  on  the  subject.  When  the  representa- 
tives of  the  contrade  had  paraded  slowly  around  the  ring 
they  took  their  places  on  a  special  section  of  seats 
reserved  for  them,  and  there  was  a  short  wait  before  the 
horses  which  were  to  race  came  trotting  into  the  ring  and 
round  to  the  starting  point.  No  tiresome  "  backing  and 
filling"  follows;  when  the  rope  has  fallen,  no  matter 
whose  horse  has  gained  a  small  advantage,  there  is  no 
beginning  again.  We  waited,  breathless,  with  the  rest  of 
the  spectators.  We  were  Giraffes,  but  alas!  we  knew 
that  our  horse  was  a  bony  little  mare  which  looked  too 
stiff  to  win  a  race  even  by  fraud ;  and  we  were  right,  for 
in  the  end  she  came  in  at  the  very  tail  of  the  line. 

At  length  the  rope  fell,  the  horses  shot  forward  and 
a  thunderous  uproar  began.  It  flowed  and  ebbed,  its 
loudest  point  being  ever  where  the  horses  for  the  instant 
were  passing.  Women  shrieked,  men  shouted,  cursed  or 
howled,  as  the  horse  of  their  contrada  gained  or  lost. 
They  clung  to  the  barriers,  they  sprang  into  the  air  in  an 
ecstasy  of  excitement.  They  tried  to  climb  upon  one 
another's  shoulders  and  every  throat  grew  hoarse  with 
its  deafening  contributions  to  the  din.  It  was  soon  seen 
that  the  Wolf  was  to  have  it.  Once  it  looked  as  though 
the  Snail  were  gaining;  but  alas!  no;  the  Wolfs  black 
and  white  checkerboard  of  a  fantino  came  in  two  lengths 
ahead.  One  of  the  jockeys  was  thrown  at  the  most 
dangerous  descent;  we  were  horrified  to  see  him  dashed 
to  the  ground.  He  lay  still  and  was  quickly  lifted  up 
by  a  number  of  men  who  darted  forward  and  carried 
him  off  the  .ground.  Soon  after  another  rider  fell,  but 


256  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

picked  himself  up  and  scrambled  out  of  the  instant 
danger  of  being  struck  by  the  horses  which  were  just 
behind. 

The  moment  the  successful  jockey  leaps  from  his 
horse  the  crowd  swarms  into  the  ring  and  he  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  surging  mob  who  cheer  him,  press  upon 
him,  hug  and  kiss  him,  almost  weep  over  him  and 
usually  bear  him  off  upon  their  shoulders.  A  number 
of  policemen  soon  formed  a  protection  round  the  Wolf 
or  I  really  believe  he  would  have  been  in  danger  of  suf- 
focation. The  people  poured  down  from  the  seats  and 
the  successful  contrada  half  mad  with  joy  followed  its 
horse  and  jockey  to  church,  where  the  banner  they  had 
just  won  was  blessed.  The  night  is  spent  in  merry- 
making and  though  a  good  deal  of  wine  is  drunk  I  am 
told  no  quarreling  or  fighting  occurs. 

Two  weeks  later  the  successful  contrada  gives  a 
banquet.  Long  tables  are  set  down  the  main  street  of 
its  quarter,  and  sometimes  the  horse  is  invited  and  stands 
at  the  head  of  the  longest  table,  with  a  fine  manger 
before  him  filled  with  the  choicest  equine  delicacies. 


SIENA.     FONTE  BRANDA. 


TOWER'D   CITIES 

Ma  non  pensai  che  fosse  cosi  forte 
La  dolce  nostalgia  del  suol  toscano. 
La  nostalgia  che  non  mi  lascia  mai 
Che  fosse  cosi  forte  io  non  pensai.' 


—  PANZACCHI. 


O  drive  across  hilltops  and  through 
smiling  valleys  to  San  Gimignano 
on  a  Sunday  in  spring  is  a  joyous 
adventure,  especially  if  Siena  be 
the  point  of  departure.  In  that 
case  the  first  miles  of  the  journey 
are  enlivened  by  the  company  of 
many  of  the  maids  and  matrons  of 
the  neighborhood,  and  their  dress 
and  bearing  on  that  day  are  so  festal,  almost  opulent,  as 
to  cheer  the  heart  of  the  traveler  and  make  the  roadside 
bright  with  color  and  vocal  with  mirthful  voices.  Their 
wide-spreading  leghorn  hats  are  decked  with  the  longest 
white  ribbons  and  crowned  with  gardens  of  artificial 
flowers,  and  one  wonders  whether  the  whole  ambition  of 
a  contadina  in  this  region  does  not  centre  in  her  head- 
gear. If  so,  one  cannot  help  being  gratified  to  see  how 
fully  and  generally  she  manages  to  satisfy  it. 

But  there  is  nothing  to  complain  of  in  the  whole 
drive   between   Siena   and   San    Gimignano.     The  rich 

257 


258  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

Chianti  country  spreads  its  beauty  and  fertility  abroad  and 
waving  grain  and  festooning  vines,  with  the  gray  mist  of 
the  spare  olives,  clothe  the  undulating  slopes.  Wild 
flowers,  too,  spring  up  along  the  wayside  and  flaunt  from 
every  hedge.  Nor  is  there  lack  of  ruined  castles  for 
the  romance-loving,  not  to  speak  of  farmhouses  with 
towers  and  gates  that  suggest  battle  and  siege.  But 
these  last  are  the  older  ones ;  some  of  the  newer  are 
embellished  in  a  manner  to  indicate  a  sprightly  humor 
in  the  owner.  For  example,  on  the  freshly-whitened 
wall  of  a  cottage  will  appear  a  window  with  what  accom- 
paniment of  gaudy  drapery  and  brilliant  flower-pots  can 
be  included,  while  from  over  the  sill  one  or  two  florid 
personages  in  high-colored  costumes  smile  vividly  and 
continuously  on  the  passers-by  —  and  all  this  is  the  per- 
manent product  of  the  decorator's  art. 

Now  and  then  we  dipped  to  a  winding  stream, 
crossed  by  an  arched  bridge,  and  sometimes  rattled 
through  a  little  town  where  the  bareheaded  population 
appeared  to  live  in  the  streets  and  to  be  devoting  Sunday 
to  reviewing  the  past  week  in  concert.  At  last  the  far- 
famed  towers  of  San  Gimignano  came  in  sight,  and  having 
climbed  to  the  city  gates  we  noisily  made  our  entrance 
and  drew  up  before  the  Leon  Bianco.  The  White  Lion 
proved  rather  dark,  rather  dingy  and  not  entirely  invit- 
ing, but  it  was  the  best  accommodation  which  the  City 
of  Beautiful  Towers  afforded ;  and  for  my  part,  when  I 
found  I  had  been  given  a  bedroom  in  the  hollow  of  an 
arch  that  spanned  a  narrow  street,  I  was  consoled  for 
much.  From  a  window  on  either  side  of  the  arch  I  looked 
into  bygone  centuries  ;  I  could  almost  participate  in  the 
feuds  of  the  neighboring  great  families,  and  should  cer- 
tainly have  urged  on  an  outbreak  had  one  taken  place 
just  then.  My  bed  was  vast  and  billowy  and  beside  it 
hung  a  cheerfully  colored  print  of  Saint  Lucy  carrying 


TOWER'D    CITIES  259 

her  eyes  on  a  platter,  while  on  a  little  table  near  by  stood 
an  old  Roman  lamp. 

We  had  been  late  in  arriving  and  it  was  morning 
before  we  could  go  abroad  and  view  the  land.  We  found 
abundant  interest  in  the  harmonious  antiquity,  every- 
where undisturbed  by  the  effrontery  of  modern  innova- 
tion. The  appearance  of  the  sombre  Gothic  buildings, 
strengthened  by  arches  and  buttresses  high  in  the  air,  we 
fondly  hope  has  not  changed  so  very  much  since  the 
thirteenth  century  when  the  town  was  a  prosperous  inde- 
pendent commune.  Thirteen  of  the  fifty  towers  which 
once  crowded  the  pugnacious  little  city  still  lift  them- 
selves aloft.  Square,  rough,  with  hardly  an  aperture  for 
light  and  without  an  attempt  at  architectural  ornament, 
they  are  far  from  deserving  the  appellation  "belle" 
Indeed,  they  have  an  almost  savage  look,  like  the  history 
of  those  fierce  ruling  families  of  San  Gimignano  who 
absolutely  sacrificed  the  independence  of  the  city  to  their 
private  quarrels,  in  the  end  tearing  her  limb  from  limb 
till  she  fell  under  the  subjection  of  Florence. 

We  paid  our  duty  to  the  cathedral  where  with  some 
good  frescoes  are  many  of  a  grotesqueness  to  bar  any 
attempt  at  solemnity  of  feeling,  notably  the  portrayal  of 
the  drunkenness  of  Noah,  that  silly,  degrading  story 
which  is  such  a  favorite  with  the  early  masters.  The  life 
of  poor  little  Santa  Fina,  their  local  girl-saint,  is  here  set 
forth  in  its  various  incidents,  and  the  unpleasant  details 
of  what  her  determined  piety  led  her  to  carry  through 
are  suggested  by  the  explanations  of  the  guide.  Poor 
devoted  mistaken  child !  living  a  life  distressing  to  her- 
self and  intolerable  to  others,  but  dying  at  fifteen  and 
performing  miracles  on  the  way  to  the  grave — type  of 
her  time  and  still  revered,  what  a  curious  survival  the  wor- 
ship of  her  seems  to-day !  In  the  Palazzo  Pubblico  close  by 
we  thought  of  Dante,  who  once  in  that  very  spot  fired 


260  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

the  people  with  his  eloquent  advocacy  of  the  Guelph 
cause.  He  seemed  by  contrast  to  shine  as  the  star  of  an 
enlightenment  whose  rays  should  have  made  clear  the 
pitiful  futility  of  such  a  life  as  poor  Fina's. 

At  the  highest  point  of  San  Gimignano  there  is  a 
quiet  garden  much  overgrown  with  tangled  grasses  and 
wild  blossoming  herbs.  It  occupies  a  nest  in  the  remains 
of  the  old  fortifications,  and  on  the  ample  wall  there  is  a 
look-out  furnished  with  benches  and  a  square  stone 
table,  below  which  the  town  and  the  country  round 
about  lie  spread  out  as  on  a  map.  Here  in  the  warm, 
still  noon  air,  where  the  scent  of  wallflowers  —  Santa 
Fina's  flower — was  now  and  then  wafted  to  us,  we  sat 
and  gave  ourselves  to  rest  and  pleasant  ruminations. 
The  sound  of  voices  rose  to  us,  attenuated  by  distance. 
Out  of  sight  below,  the  present  every-day  life  of  the 
little  town  took  on  a  certain  unreality  while  its  roofs  and 
towers,  ignoring  the  changes  at  their  feet,  communed 
together  almost  audibly.  They  talked  of  their  youth 
when  times  and  manners  were  not  as  now.  Then, 
indeed,  there  was  something  to  gaze  down  upon.  The 
rough  brood  below  pulsated  with  life ;  ebullition,  turmoil 
sprang  into  being  in  a  moment.  Then  they  themselves 
became  a  part  of  the  drama,  for  tower  answered  tower  in 
the  fury  of  hostile  encounter  when  the  souls  of  these 
human  creatures  were  convulsed,  and  blood  once 
splashed  the  rugged  stones  that  now  felt  only  the  pas- 
sionless trickle  of  rain-drops.  Alas,  that  it  was  all 
over — the  past  dead,  the  present  mere  spiritless  monot- 
ony !  As  once  implacable  hands  had  reared  them,  so  now 
they  mourned  unabashed  for  the  agitation  and  ferment  of 
their  prime.  Thus  after  a  while  we  left  them  and  quitting 
our  high  gallery  joined  again  the  careless  population  of 
San  Gimignano,  unconscious  and  unresentful  of  the  dis- 
paragement murmured  above  their  heads. 


TOWER'D    CITIES  261 

In  the  afternoon,  preparing  for  a  longer  walk,  we 
stood  at  the  top  of  the  high  flight  of  steps  leading  down 
from  the  Palazzo  Pubblico.  Our  provisional  attitude 
appeared  to  strike  a  dozen  or  so  of  speculative  little  boys 
and  they  scrambled  up  the  stairs  and  clamorously  urged 
their  company  upon  us  to  any  or  every  point  of  interest 
in  the  vicinity.  We  refused ;  they  persisted.  We  ignored 
them ;  they  were  not  to  be  discouraged. 

Taking  refuge  in  satire  I  remarked,  "  I  suppose  you 
are  all  official  guides  to  San  Gimignano?" 

But  upon  this  point  there  was  some  division  of 
opinion.  Some  cheerfully  shouted,  "Yes,  yes,"  while 
others  cried,  "  No,  Signora,  no !  I  am,  but  he  is  not, 
nor  he"  anxiously  pushing  into  the  front  rank  and  hus- 
tling aside  as  many  rivals  as  possible. 

"  But  we  know  San  Gimignano ;  we  have  been 
everywhere  and  are  not  in  need  of  a  guide." 

They  grinned  and  shuffled  a  little  but  looked  no 
less  determined.  It  was  evident  that  we  were  not  to  be 
unattended  but  we  began  also  to  feel  relentings  toward 
these  pertinacious  young  rascals,  especially  one  scampish 
little  urchin  in  a  green  waistcoat  who  was  enjoying  the 
humorous  side  of  our  helplessness. 

At  this  point  we  thought  of  a  diversion  and  asked 
if  they  were  fond  of  sweets.  Upon  this  subject  there  was 
absolute  unanimity  and  selecting  the  largest  boy  we  put 
him  in  trust  of  funds  on  which  to  treat  the  whole  group. 
Clattering  at  break-neck  speed  down  the  stairs  they 
galloped  across  the  piazza,  and  the  absence  of  all  consul- 
tation showed  that  there  was  no  hesitation  as  to  the  place 
where  the  money  was  to  be  spent.  But  were  they  to  be 
overreached  in  this  way  ?  No  fear  of  that.  The  shop 
was  but  too  near  and  before  we  could  gather  ourselves 
together  and  get  out  of  sight  they  were  upon  us  again 
like  a  swarm  of  flies.  Some,  with  cheeks  distended  by 


262  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

the  sweetmeats  just  purchased,  shamelessly  vociferated 
that  Luigi  had  unfairly  kept  most  of  the  candy  for  himself 
and  that  they  had  been  left  out  in  the  distribution.  The 
broad  farce  of  this  climax  left  us  shaking  with  laughter 
and  we  set  off,  not  unwilling  to  bear  for  a  time  the  society 
of  these  disarming  little  wags. 

After  time  enough  had  elapsed  to  make  it  evident 
that  no  more  plunder  was  to  be  looked  for  from  us, 
our  companions  dropped  away  one  after  another  with 
the  exception  of  two,  Green- Waistcoat  of  the  wicked 
eye  and  a  boy  of  about  the  same  age  with  a  really 
handsome  ingenuous  face.  This  pair  made  the  whole 
round  of  the  walls  of  San  Gimignano  with  us,  keeping 
at  a  distance  of  a  few  feet,  now  and  then  joining 
in  the  conversation  if  encouraged  but  never  being  im- 
portunate or  troublesome.  It  may  be  added  that  there- 
after during  our  stay  we  gravely  recognized  the  pair 
as  acquaintances  in  our  meetings  on  the  street,  but 
strange  to  say  we  were  not  again  disturbed  by  teasing 
attentions  from  them  or  the  other  youths  of  San 
Gimignano. 

As  we  returned  from  our  walk  we  paused  in  the 
Piazza  della  Cisterna  to  watch  the  women  coming  to 
draw  water  at  the  public  well  in  the  centre  of  the 
square.  Each  one  bore  a  bucket  to  which  was  attached 
a  heavy  coil  of  rope.  Broad  stone  steps  converged  at 
the  massive  curb  and  the  encircling  rim  of  stone  showed 
a  curious  difference  from  any  other  we  had  seen.  It  was 
lined  and  seamed  irregularly  with  deep  grooves  polished 
to  a  perfect  smoothness.  The  coiled  ropes  were  now 
explained,  and  one  was  left  to  surmise  the  depth  of  the 
well  and  the  exertion  that  had  been  expended  there  year 
after  year  in  laboriously  pulling  up,  hand  over  hand,  the 
household  supply  of  water  till  the  cords  had  thus  fur- 
rowed the  stone. 


TOWER'D    CITIES  263 

One  morning  early  we  passed  out  of  the  fine, 
frowning  gate  that  lifts  a  threatening  front  to  the  enemies 
of  San  Gimignano,  and  descended  the  steep  slope  that 
leads  to  a  certain  fountain  whose  beauty  offers  a  fit 
subject  for  poetry,  even  though  its  office  is  but  the 
humble  one  of  serving  the  local  laundresses.  Hollowed 
out  of  a  wall  of  solid  rock,  it  is  supported  in  front  by  a 
series  of  beautiful  pointed  arches,  and  the  great  basins 
of  clear  water  within  lie  in  cool  shadow  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  sunlight.  It  was  not  too  early  for  a  number  of  girls 
to  be  already  at  work,  but  a  length  of  several  arches  was 
still  unoccupied,  and  here  we  presently  became  witnesses 
of  a  diverting  episode.  Down  the  hill  from  the  town 
side  by  side  came  strolling  a  pair  of  companions  evi- 
dently on  the  best  of  terms,  the  one  a  middle-aged  man, 
the  other  a  long-legged  pig  of  generous  bulk.  No 
master  with  his  dog  ever  appeared  to  be  on  a  footing  of 
more  friendly  intimacy,  and  together  they  approached 
the  fountain.  Within  a  few  feet  of  it,  however,  the  pig 
seemed  to  experience  a  feeling  of  reluctance  and  stopped 
short.  The  man  addressed  him  persuasively  and  pointed 
forward.  The  pig  turned  his  back  and  displayed 
obstinacy.  His  master  then  began  an  argumentative 
remonstrance  in  a  tone  as  of  one  appealing  to  the 
better  feelings  of  a  fellow  being,  and  at  the  same  time 
pulled  from  his  pocket  a  few  nuts.  One  or  the  other 
touched  the  generosity  of  the  pig,  who,  after  a  few 
expostulating  grunts  and  hesitations,  walked  up  to  the 
brink  of  the  basin.  Having  once  made  up  his  mind  he 
behaved  like  a  Trojan  and  stood  firm  as  a  rock  while 
his  master  again  and  again  splashed  double  handfuls  of 
cold  water  over  him,  rubbing  his  back  between  whiles 
and  administering  encouragement  and  approbation  in 
caressing  tones.  This  ceremony  over  the  two  turned 
away  and  retraced  their  steps  to  the  town  in  a  way 


264  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

which  showed  that  the  excellent  understanding  between 
them  was  undisturbed. 

VOLTERRA. 

On  leaving  San  Gimignano  the  road  makes  many 
windings  along  the  crests  of  hill  ridges  as  it  follows  the 
southeasterly  direction  toward  Volterra.  The  Belle  Torre 
vanish  and  reappear  again  and  again,  each  time  a  little 
smaller,  till  they  fade  away  altogether  and  we  trot 
merrily  on  to  the  rhythm  set  by  the  collar  of  bells  our 
horses  wear.  This  joyous  sound  is  very  inspiriting  at 
first,  but  as  it  is  extremely  loud  and  interferes  with  con- 
versation, we  have  had  reluctantly  to  convey  to  Andrea 
our  preference  for  relinquishing  it.  It  would  be  too 
cruel  to  insist  on  starting  without  it,  as  in  that  case  half 
the  glory  of  our  departure  from  a  town  would  be  lost, 
so  we  say  nothing  when  the  horses  appear  at  the  door  in 
full  panoply  and  we  dash  off  swinging  round  corners  and 
making  all  the  noise  possible  till  we  are  well  beyond  the 
walls.  This  accomplished,  Andrea  stops  his  steeds, 
clambers  down,  and  meekly  detaching  the  beloved  neck- 
lace hides  it  under  the  carriage  seat. 

Across  these  grassy  slopes  the  sweetest  breezes 
blow,  bringing  us  the  fragrance  of  a  thousand  minute 
wild  flowers.  It  is  a  solitary  country  and  sometimes  for 
miles  there  is  not  a  town  in  sight.  It  gives  one  the  feel- 
ing of  freedom  and  a  wide  out-reaching  space — a  place 
to  draw  deep  breaths  in  and  let  the  thoughts  fly  far 
abroad.  At  last  Volterra  comes  into  view,  high  perched 
like  its  mates,  its  crenelated  ramparts  frowning  down 
upon  the  Maremma,  that  sinister  but  innocent-looking 
land  that  deals  subtle  death  while  speciously  luring  by 
its  fertile  soil.  Peasants  tempted  by  good  wages  to  labor 
there  during  the  summer  too  often  carry  back  with  them 
to  their  homes  the  poison  of  its  fatal  malaria, 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

i-IK 


TOWER'D    CITIES  265 

Before  reaching  the  walls  of  the  city  we  came  upon 
an  abandoned  villa  looking  down  its  weed-grown  path 
between  two  ranks  of  towering  cypresses,  beautiful, 
solemn  trees,  whose  black  columnar  trunks  upheld  a  wall 
of  dense  shadowy  foliage,  through  which  no  ray  of  sun 
might  penetrate.  Immovable  before  any  wandering 
breeze  they  stood,  looking  almost  as  indestructible  as  the 
stones  beside  them.  But  lonely  as  they  were  they  were 
not  funereal,  only  pensive,  thoughtful,  lost  in  a  long 
revery,  the  memory  of  their  past;  for  with  their  growth 
they  had  watched  the  waxing  life  of  the  villa  they 
guarded ;  and  within  their  hearing  how  many  secrets  had 
been  whispered !  That  was  in  their  youth,  for  they  had 
outlived  the  last  tenant  and  the  house  stood  silent,  the 
soul  gone  out  of  it.  Compared  with  these  sedate  old 
trees,  however,  the  villa  itself  was  nothing  short  of  frivo- 
lous, and  the  statues  upon  their  pedestals  in  the  garden 
were  almost  grotesque  in  their  smirking  attempts  at  ele- 
gance. Antiquated  they  were,  but  not  antique,  for  they 
represented  ladies  of  a  period  when  petticoats  were 
voluminous  and  beflounced,  and  to  see  the  levity  of  their 
airs  and  graces  translated  into  marble  was  enough  to 
make  one  blush.  Not  even  their  crumbling  condition, 
eroded  by  time  as  they  were,  could  dignify  them  in  this 
their  old  age,  and  we  felt  sure  the  cypresses  had  secretly 
disapproved  them  from  the  beginning,  and  even  now  only 
tolerated  them  through  long  association  and  pity  for 
their  neglected  dotage. 

But  after  all  what  ancient  garden  undisciplined  and 
overgrown  is  not  dear  and  lovely?  Briars  take  posses- 
sion here  and  there,  delicate  wild  growths  veil  the  ground 
left  vacant  by  the  dying  out  of  exotics,  and  native  blos- 
soms spring  up  everywhere  to  weave  a  many-colored 
pattern  on  the  sod.  We  could  wander  about  here  at 
will,  and  we  idled  an  hour  away  in  this  beguiling  spot 


266  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

before  entering  Volterra.  When  at  length  we  crept 
under  the  heavy  archway  of  its  mighty  walls  the  very 
weight  of  them  seemed  to  settle  upon  our  consciousness, 
and  the  age  and  immutability  of  the  city  was  tangibly 
borne  in  upon  our  minds.  Its  antiquity  reaches  back  so 
far  that  its  origin  disappears  in  a  mist  of  conjecture,  but 
we  know  that  it  was  a  famous  Etruscan  city  and  held 
out  for  two  years  against  the  Romans  when  they  were 
brand-new  filibustered.  At  last  it  had  to  give  in  and 
become  a  Roman  city,  and  then  all  through  the  Middle 
Ages  it  had  a  varied,  adventurous  history  till  Florence 
subdued  it  in  the  fourteenth  century.  Rebelling  against 
her  more  than  once  it  was  at  last  crushed  by  Lorenzo  dei 
Medici,  under  whom  it  was  taken  and  subjected  to  a 
most  cruel  sack  and  slaughter.  Dreadful  were  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  that  day,  and  one  takes  a  grim  satisfaction 
in  remembering  that  Lorenzo  could  not  die  easily  for 
thinking  of  it. 

But  Volterra  has  re-peopled  itself  many  times  since 
then,  and  as  we  threaded  the  streets  pretty  rosy  faces 
peeped  at  us  out  of  tiny  casements  high  in  the  air  and  a 
cheerful  buzz  proceeded  from  the  little  shops  where  local 
wares  were  exposed  for  sale.  The  principal  industry  of 
the  city  is  the  manufacture  of  alabaster  ornaments,  and 
one  cannot  but  heave  a  sigh  at  the  thought  that  two- 
thirds  of  the  population  are  occupied  in  supplying  to  the 
world  objects  of  such  hopeless  ugliness.  Whole  windows 
glare  white  with  these  little  monstrosities,  in  Florence 
and  Rome  as  well  as  here,  and  the  fact  that  so  many  are 
called  for  is  enough  to  make  one  despondent  over  the 
aesthetic  sense  of  both  Italians  and  foreigners. 

Wishing  well  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  place,  we 
desired  to  work  a  reform  among  the  old  women  of  Vol- 
terra who,  no  one  knows  why,  have  adopted  a  most 
unbecoming  fashion  —  that  of  wearing  men's  hats,  high- 


TOWER'D    CITIES  267 

crowned,  gray  felt  ones — perched  on  the  back  of  the  head. 
When  a  kerchief  is  put  on  under  this  and  knotted 
beneath  the  chin  the  effect  may  be  imagined.  Venus 
herself  would  become  a  fright  in  such  a  head-gear.  There 
is,  however,  no  fault  to  be  found  with  the  younger  gene- 
ration in  the  matter  of  attention  to  costume,  and  it  is  even 
a  little  disappointing  to  observe  that  it  is  almost  sophisti- 
cated and  knows  the  latest  cut  of  sleeves.  It  is  vain  now 
to  mourn  over  the  loss  of  the  beautiful  native  costumes 
of  these  provinces.  They  are  gone  past  recall  and 
Fashion  has  insinuated  herself  into  Volterra,  undeterred  by 
its  venerable  aspect  and  the  threatening  of  its  prodigious 
walls  that  with  their  splendid  ranks  of  sandstone  blocks 
measure  no  less  than  thirteen  feet  in  thickness  and  forty 
feet  in  height. 

.  It  was  Sunday,  and  in  twos  and  threes  pretty  girls 
linked  arm  in  arm  sauntered  along,  sociably  chatting, 
and  if  they  were  cognizant  of  the  groups  of  youths  who 
stood  here  and  there  glancing  at  them  as  they  passed, 
their  unconsciousness  was  admirably  acted.  One  can 
hardly  help  feeling  a  bit  melancholy  that  custom  keeps 
the  young  of  opposite  sexes  so  sternly  apart  here,  but 
etiquette  appears  to  be  quite  as  tyrannical  in  this  small 
town  as  for  instance  in  a  centre  of  gayety  and  fashion 
like  Bologna.  In  that  city  it  was  especially  brought  to 
our  notice  one  night  at  an  open-air  concert,  and  the 
youth  and  beauty  who  attended  it  will  never  know  the 
wistful  commiseration  we  wasted  upon  them.  It  was  a 
warm,  moonlit  evening,  and  in  the  Piazza  Galvani  thou- 
sands of  people  were  walking  about  or  forming  parties 
at  tables  where  they  could  consume  ices  and  listen  to  the 
playing  of  the  band.  In  short,  it  was  the  very  place  and 
hour  for  young  people  to  enjoy  a  little  romance  together, 
and  yet  custom  stepped  in  to  prevent  their  mingling. 
Families  of  big,  blooming  daughters  or  small,  coquettish 


268  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

ones  were  carefully  chaperoned  by  plain,  middle-aged 
mothers  who  went  about  like  little  tugs  conveying  showy 
vessels  under  full  sail,  for  the  girls  wore  white  or  light 
dresses  with  all  the  feathers,  ribbons  and  laces  they  could 
muster.  They  met  other  girls  and  then  stopped  and  fell 
into  gayly  chattering  groups  while  the  mothers  dropped 
into  the  background  and  communicated  quietly  in  lower 
tones,  at  the  same  time  keeping  a  vigilant  eye  upon  their 
progeny. 

All  this  while  the  young  men  were  also  standing  in 
knots  or  strolling  about  together  apparently  paying  no 
attention  to  the  girls,  while  the  latter,  on  the  other  hand, 
wore  an  air  of  complete  indifference  to  any  observation 
or  admiration  they  might  be  eliciting.  There  was  no 
flirting ;  decorum  reached  such  a  point  that  had  it  not 
been  for  one  little  incident  we  should  have  felt  it  abso- 
lutely chilling.  This  was  when  a  young  man  placed 
himself  opposite  us  where  he  could  eye  a  vivacious  girl  in 
pink.  There  he  remained  for  all  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  with  his  gaze  sternly  and  unsmilingly  fixed  upon 
this  damsel,  while  she  never  turned  her  head  to  look  at 
him,  but  at  the  same  time  was  acutely  conscious  of  his 
regard .  She  became  more  animated  than  ever ;  she  smiled, 
she  tossed  her  head;  she  raised  her  eyebrows  and  rolled 
her  pretty  eyes ;  she  bestowed  upon  her  female  companion 
all  the  pleasurable  excitement  his  behavior  gave  rise  to. 
When  he  looked  the  other  way  for  a  moment  she  stole  a 
glance  in  his  direction,  but  when  he  turned  back  she  was 
again  absorbed  in  her  friend.  A  gravity  so  unmoved  as 
to  be  hardly  less  than  stony  appeared  to  be  his  role  and 
the  most  buoyant  exhilaration  hers.  Was  this  courting 
in  Bologna?  Was  it  followed  by  a  demand  in  form 
upon  the  parents,  a  decorous  wooing  where  they  met 
once  or  twice  in  the  presence  of  a  duenna,  and  finally  a 
marriage,  after  which  they  became  acquainted  ?  We 


TOWER'D    CITIES  269 

manage  these  things  differently,  and  in  a  way  the  license 
of  which  would  no  doubt  shock  Volterra,  but  their 
stricter  code  does  not  seem  provocative  of  discontent, 
and  I  make  no  doubt  there  are  as  many  espousals  here 
according  to  the  population  as  there  are  in  Boston.  At 
any  rate,  we  did  not  concern  ourselves  so  strenuously 
with  the  question  as  to  disturb  the  leisurely  enjoyment 
of  a  Sunday  in  Volterra. 

Both  within  and  without  the  walls  it  is  delightful 
strolling,  whether  one  ends  by  perching  upon  the  broad 
top  of  a  parapet  beyond  the  great  gates  to  gaze  down 
upon  the  varied  country  below  or  withdraws  into  the 
dimness  of  contracted  streets  where  overhanging  eaves 
nearly  meet,  to  grope  for  some  ardently  desired  picture. 
Volterra,  far  out  of  the  beaten  track  though  it  be,  pos- 
sesses a  few  of  the  loveliest  of  Italian  paintings. 
Signorelli's  Annunciation  is  here  in  a  chapel  of  the 
Duomo,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  that  great 
master's  works,  and  Benvenuto  di  Giovanni  has  more 
than  one  fine  example;  but  rarest  and  so,  perhaps,  most 
rejoiced  over,  we  found  a  little  Madonna  by  Sassetta 
behind  the  altar  of  a  small  church  furthest  from  our 
alb  ergo.  In  the  dusky  retirement  of  this  sanctuary  we 
admired  her  with  an  ardor  that  somewhat  surprised  the 
perfunctory  custodian,  unused  to  seeing  this  picture, 
which  he  evidently  regarded  without  enthusiasm,  evoke 
such  lively  feeling.  He  appeared  to  be  a  sardonic 
person,  unlike  most  of  his  calling,  and  I  suspected  him 
of  not  being  a  native  of  Volterra  or  even  of  Tuscany. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  considered  the  whole  affair  as 
overdone,  perhaps  including  the  fee  he  received  at  our 
departure,  for  as  we  turned  away  from  his  murmur  of 
acknowledgment  I  half  thought  I  overheard,  uttered 
beneath  his  breath,  the  words  "  Tre  volte  buona ! " 
Now,  to  be  called  good  once  by  an  Italian  is,  of  course, 


270  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

a  gratifying  thing,  but  strange  to  say,  nothing  more 
derogatory  can  be  cast  at  one  than  to  be  called  thrice 
good,  for  in  that  case  the  implication  is  that  there  is  less 
of  benevolence  than  of  feeble-mindedness  ! 

Volterra's  nearest  railway  station  is  nine  miles  away, 
and  as  we  emerged  from  our  hotel  at  nine  o'clock  the 
next  morning  to  take  the  diligence,  we  coveted  the  ele- 
vated outside  seats  from  which  to  enjoy  the  prospect 
on  the  long  descent  to  the  plain  below.  We  had  not 
bespoken  them,  however,  and  some  of  those  Italians 
waiting  to  start  would  of  course  have  been  more  provi- 
dent than  we.  But  to  our  satisfaction  we  were  alone  in 
our  desire  for  them.  The  Italians  climbed  into  the  body 
of  the  vehicle  and  promptly  pulled  down  all  the  linen 
curtains  and  fastened  them  securely  so  as  to  shut  out 
every  particle  of  dust  and  view.  We  started  off  and 
began  to  roll  over  the  hard,  even  road  smoothly  enough 
and  at  a  moderate  pace,  according  to  our  idea ;  but  hardly 
had  we  gone  ten  rods  before  the  curtains  were  suddenly 
snatched  apart  just  behind  my  shoulder  and  a  volley  of 
Italian  invective  shot  forth  at  the  driver — picturesque 
imprecations,  for  oaths  seem  somehow  to  lose  their  pro- 
fanity in  a  foreign  language.  What  the  devil  was  the 
matter  that  this  vehicle  was  rocking  like  a  boat  in  a 
storm  ?  Was  that  the  pace  at  which  he  intended  to  take 
us  down  the  mountain !  Son  of  an  elderly,  unbeautiful 
dog !  And  a  great  deal  more,  waxing  hotter  and  hotter 
to  the  climax.  The  driver's  return  fire  was  quite  as  vigor- 
ous, and  for  some  moments  I  felt  as  though  suddenly 
caught  in  the  space  between  two  charging  bands  of  war- 
riors. After  each  had  freed  his  mind,  however,  peace 
returned,  the  driver  wound  up  his  little  coffee-mill  of  a 
brake  and  we  proceeded  at  much  the  same  rate  of  speed 
as  before  till  we  had  descended  to  the  Saline  Springs,  where 
the  train  passes  which  carries  the  traveler  on  to  Pisa. 


TOWER'D    CITIES  271 

LUCCA. 

"  At  Lucca,  for  the  autumn  festival, 
The  streets  are  tulip-gay;  but  you  and  I 
Forgot  them,  seeing  over  church  and  wall 
Guinigi's  tower  soar  i*  the  black-blue  sky, 
A  stem  of  delicate  rose  against  the  blue  .   .   ." 

MME.  DARMESTETER.      Tuscan  Olives. 

We  left  Pisa  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  to  drive 
to  Lucca,  and  though  the  road  affords  no  alternations  of 
ascent  and  descent  it  yields  such  variety  and  charm  that 
one  would  not  change  a  rod  of  it.  Certainly  if  it  is 
traversed  just  at  the  right  hour  of  a  perfect  afternoon  in 
the  month  of  June,  in  all  the  ripeness  of  an  Italian  sum- 
mer not  too  far  advanced,  and  freshened  by  recent  show- 
ers, there  can  be  nothing  more  delicious.  At  least  so 
thought  three  happy  beings  as  they  set  off. 

An  Italian  friend  once  said  to  us,  "Those  who  visit 
Italy  only  in  the  winter  or  early  spring  have  never 
known  her.  The  true  Italy  one  sees  in  summer."  This 
is  true  enough  of  the  traveler  who  departs  from  the 
country  after  spending  a  winter  in  Rome  or  Florence, 
shivering  in  rooms  insufficiently  heated  and  occasionally 
venturing  into  tomb-like  churches  and  icy  galleries.  He 
hurries  away  while  the  tree  branches  are  still  bare  and  the 
festooning  grape-vines  mere  leafless  ropes,  and  how  can 
he  carry  with  him  any  realization  of  the  beauty  and 
affluence  of  the  summer  landscape?  Then  there  are 
those  who  insist  that  October  is  the  crowning  month  of 
the  whole  year,  with  its  flush  of  sumptuous  color  and  its 
joyous  vintage  festivals.  Perhaps  in  Italy  it  lacks  the 
shade  of  sadness  it  has  elsewhere,  the  impression  of  hec- 
tic decay  that  our  wondrously-tinted  forests  suggest;  or 
perhaps  the  tinge  of  melancholy  is  there  and  renders  it 
all  the  fuller.  At  all  events,  one  must  long  to  complete 
the  cycle  and  Know  an  Italian  autumn. 


272  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

After  leaving  Pisa  there  are  broad  meadows  to  cross 
and  then  come  low  hills,  at  the  foot  of  which  country 
villas  with  their  gardens  spread ;  and  at  intervals  a  space 
of  road  is  lined  by  two  opposite  ranks  of  houses  belong- 
ing to  a  farming  hamlet.  The  fronts  of  many  of  these 
cottages  (if  one  may  call  such  solid  habitations  of  stone 
and  mortar  by  that  name)  displayed  a  new  architectural 
feature  in  the  curtains  and  friezes  of  onions  which  adorn 
them.  Any  one  who  has  become  familiar  with  the 
respectful  consideration  accorded  to  this  humble  vegeta- 
ble in  studios  and  art  schools,  where  its  conformation 
and  its  rich  gradations  of  color  are  made  the  subject  of 
many  a  study,  will  not  be  inclined  to  mock  at  this 
scheme  of  decoration.  At  all  events  he  will  be  far  bet- 
ter able  than  the  critic  who  has  only  culinary  associations 
with  it,  to  appreciate  the  fine  tints  taken  on  in  the  sun 
by  these  adornments,  in  which  the  leaves  have  been 
deftly  braided  till  a  sort  of  fabric  is  formed  which,  hang- 
ing in  lines  or  festoons,  is  made  to  follow  the  taste  of  the 
owner.  These  houses  had  usually  a  bit  of  green  about 
them  also ;  a  tree  flung  its  branches  across,  or  a  grape- 
vine swayed  against  one  corner. 

At  one  point  there  is  a  quietly-flowing  river  to 
cross,  and  here,  somewhat  removed  upon  the  left  of  the 
way,  a  wonderful  little  town  mounts  a  knoll.  A  few  tall 
trees,  perfectly  disposed,  spring  from  its  beautiful  outline 
and  the  composition  of  the  whole  is  so  flawless  that  it 
seems  rather  the  dream  of  some  landscape  painter  pro- 
jected upon  the  sky  of  his  imagination  than  the  gradual 
growth  of  mundane  needs.  At  last  Lucca  comes  in 
sight,  with  her  impressive  ramparts  still  rearing  their 
solid,  unshaken  protection  about  her.  The  top  of  these 
ramparts  and  their  irregular  projections  forming  garden 
spaces  are  all  planted  with  tall,  shade-giving  trees,  and 
upon  them  one  may  circle  round  the  brave  little  city  in 


LUCCA.     THE  GUINIGI  TOWER. 


TOWER'D    CITIES  273 

a  quarter  of  an  hour,  such  is  its  compactness.  Within 
there  is  an  endearing  spell  about  it  that  is  renewed  each 
time  one  sees  it,  and  it  is  a  matter  for  wonder  that  it  is 
not  more  frequented  even  by  casual  wayfarers,  for  it  is 
worth  the  effort  of  a  long  pilgrimage. 

For  the  student  of  Roman  antiquities  there  is  an 
amphitheatre  and  the  knowledge  that  Julius  Caesar  once 
sat  in  solemn  council  here  with  Crassus  and  Pompey. 
For  the  lover  of  a  later  age  there  is  the  association  with 
Dante  who,  in  his  wanderings  tarried  here  and  for  a 
moment,  some  aver,  forgot  Beatrice  in  the  fascination  of 
the  Lucchese  Gentucca.  Besides 
this  there  is  rare  beauty  in  the 
little  city  itself,  and  everywhere 
present  there  is  the  attraction  of 
interesting  architecture. 

In  the  cathedral  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  tombs  in  the  world. 
Well  do  I  remember  the  first  time 
I  stood  before  it,  in  a  sort  of 
rapture  of  discovery,  wondering  in 
the  innocence  of  my  ignorance 
why  it  was  not  more  celebrated.  GUINIGI  ARMS. 

Later,  when    I    had  read   among 

other  things,  Mr.  Ruskin's  dicta  and  the  fanciful  pages 
of  "  Earthwork  out  of  Tuscany,"  I  realized  that  this 
lovely  sleeping  Ilaria  had  been  fondly  regarded  by 
many. 

Coming  from  distant  Liguria  to  her  Lucchese  home, 
she  had  been  but  three  years  a  wife  when  she  died,  and 
loving  remembrance  is  embodied  in  the  exquisite  beauty 
and  simplicity  of  the  figure  that  represents  her.  It  lies 
upon  its  bier,  tall,  noble,  outlined  by  the  perfect  folds  of 
its  marble  drapery.  One's  eyes  never  tire  of  resting 
upon  it  nor  one's  fancy  of  playing  about  the  beautiful 


274  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

woman  whose  effigy  still  preserves  for  us  the  sweet 
expression  that  in  spite  of  closed  lids  lingers  about 
the  mouth,  and  of  whom  there  must  have  been  so  much 
to  relate  which  now  we  shall  never  know.  Alas,  that 
history  is  so  coldly  neglectful  of  such  precious  records ! 

But  to  return  to  our  entrance  into  Lucca  this  par- 
ticular evening.  It  was  somewhat  late  to  carry  out  a 
cherished  plan  which  we  had  formed  long  before,  so  that 
we  lingered  not  on  the  way,  whatever  the  temptation, 
but  hastened  to  the  quiet  street  where  the  Albergo  Croce 
di  Malta  stands.  We  were  pleased  with  its  inviting 
aspect  and  its  quaint  rooms.  Our  own  ran  along  the 
front  of  the  second  story,  but  differed  in  level,  so  that 
we  mounted  two  or  three  steps  to  one  and  descended  as 
many  to  another.  Besides  this  there  were  odd  recesses 
and  corners  which  suggested  the  remodeling  and  contriv- 
ing of  an  old  building,  and  a  curious  little  boudoir 
adjoining  might  have  been  a  chapel  now  reduced  to 
worldlier  uses.  After  a  quick  survey  we  hastened  to  the 
carrying  out  of  our  plan,  which  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  to  take  supper  by  sunset  on  the  summit  of  the 
highest  tower  in  Lucca. 

The  delectable  nature  of  such  a  project  had  occurred 
to  us  upon  a  former  visit  and  had  remained  with  us  in 
the  form  of  a  pleasant  air-castle  thereafter.  The  tempt- 
ing peculiarity  of  this  tower  was  that  it  bore  upon  its 
summit,  like  a  fairy  hanging-garden,  a  tiny  grove,  pro- 
voking curiosity  as  to  how  it  could  sustain  life  aloft  there, 
exposed  to  winter  storms  and  the  heat  that  in  late  sum- 
mer is  said  to  be  intense.  Besides,  had  not  Mr.  Howells 
talked  of  this  tower  in  that  book  dearest  to  the  heart  of 
Italian  travelers,  "Tuscan  Cities"?  Though  even  he 
had  not  enjoyed  the  bliss  we  proposed  to  experience. 
There  was  also  another  precious  association.  We  liked 
to  think  that  Ilaria  had  sometimes  climbed  it,  for  it  was 


TOWER'D    CITIES  275 

the  tower  of  the  Guinigi,  of  which  family  her  husband 
was  once  the  head. 

At  first  it  was  somewhat  difficult  to  make  our  host 
assimilate  the  idea  that  even  English-speaking  forestieri 
could  seriously  intend  to  do  anything  so  unheard  of  and 
unreasonable.  The  head  waiter  joined  our  conference  — 
the  fattest  man  in  Italy,  of  a  vast  bulk  that  he  seemed  yet 
to  bear  without  self-consciousness — but  in  the  end  we 
separated  with  a  promise  of  cold  roast  fowls  and  accom- 
panying viands  to  be  prepared  while  we  meanwhile  flew 
to  ascertain  whether  the  powers  in  authority  would  yield  to 
our  desires.  Away  we  drove  to  the  foot  of  the  Palazzo 
Guinigi,  to  the  very  trunk  of  the  tower.  The  portal  was 
open,  the  entrance  hall  empty  and  silent.  We  could  find 
no  one  on  that  floor. 

Across  the  narrow  slit  of  a  street  upon  which  the 
palace  fronted  we  saw  a  friendly-looking  shoemaker 
glancing  from  his  tiny  shop,  a  sort  of  swallow's  nest  in 
the  wall,  and  we  stepped  across  to  appeal  to  him.  Upon 
the  partition  just  over  his  head  a  notice  was  fastened 
which  instantly  caught  the  eye:  " £>ui  non  si  bestemmia" 
"  No  swearing  allowed  here."  He  was  a  cobbler  of  char- 

O 

acter.  We  felt  protected  and  reassured  at  once  and 
explained  our  difficulty.  He  displayed  a  sympathetic 
interest  and  nodded  his  head  comprehendingly.  The 
thing  might  be  done.  The  key,  however,  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  tenants  who  occupied  the  highest  floor.  We 
sent  a  long  look  upward.  It  was  many  a  flight  of  stairs 
to  wnere  the  tower  sprang  above  the  roof.  But  we  began 
the  ascent  forthwith.  The  staircase  was  massive,  well 
lighted  and  with  broad  landings,  as  befitted  the  life  that 
once  went  on  there.  Up  and  up  we  toiled,  stopping  now 
and  then  as  the  views  from  successive  stories  gave  us 
wider  and  wider  prospects,  till  at  last  we  stood  directly 
under  the  roof  and  before  the  door  belonging  to  the 


276  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

highest  apartment.  In  response  to  a  knock  the  door 
opened  and  a  small,  bent  old  woman  stood  within.  To 
her  we  submissively  imparted  our  wishes,  while  she  sur- 
veyed us  as  we  thought  benignantly  nor  seemed  to  regard 
our  request  with  disdainful  surprise.  She  agreed  to  ask 
her  mistress  and  courteously  invited  us  to  enter  while  she 
did  so. 

If  the  expedition  had  been  productive  of  nothing 
more  than  the  impression  the  glimpse  of  this  interior 
gave  us,  it  would  have  been  far  from  barren  in  result. 
We  were  ushered  through  an  inner  passageway  into  a 
salon  with  windows  looking  out  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  building.  It  would  be  hard  to  express  the  peace  and 
aloofness  that  breathed  from  this  quiet  room,  with  its  out- 
look as  from  the  elevation  of  a  hill-top,  all  sound  of  life 
coming  from  afar  in  a  subdued  murmur,  the  tranquil 
valley  far  beyond  the  confines  of  the  city  wall  spread  out 
below.  Within,  silence,  order,  a  spareness  of  furnishing 
and  absence  of  trifling  ornament  unusual  in  a  place  of  its 
class.  The  principal  object  in  the  room  was  a  grand 
piano  drawn  in  convenient  proximity  to  the  light  from 
the  open  window.  Almost  an  air  of  asceticism  pervaded 
the  place,  and  yet  this  instrument  with  its  open  key- 
board softened  all  and  set  one  dreaming  of  long,  sweet, 
leisurely  contemplative  hours,  of  tones  of  Baldassare 
Galuppi  drawn  from  these  yellowed  ivories,  of  strains  of 
Monteverde  and  Pergolese  that  a  listener  might  catch 
floating  downward  in  the  night  air. 

Strange  to  say,  for  one  moment  we  had  a  glimpse 
of  a  second  figure,  small,  bent  and  old  like  the  first, 
which  paused  an  instant  in  gliding  by  the  doorway  to 
another  room.  Was  it  the  mistress?  If  so,  did  she  live 
here  alone?  And  who,  then,  touched  the  keys  of  this 
piano,  which  somehow  had  the  look  of  use?  After  a 
little  the  old  servant  returned  and  brought  with  her  per- 


TOWER'D    CITIES  277 

mission  to  occupy  the  tower  as  long  as  we  liked,  upon 
which  we  hastened  away  to  finish  our  preparations. 

We  returned  to  the  hotel  for  our  supper  and  found 
the  employees  of  the  inn  in  a  group  at  the  door  with  the 
hampers,  including  all  necessary  dishes,  admirably 
packed,  and  a  servant  ready  to  mount  the  seat  with  the 
coachman  and  go  with  us  to  carry  them  up.  An  air  of 
animation  and  amusement  now  pervaded  the  company, 
for  they  had  evidently  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  our 
proceedings  were  to  be  regarded  humorously.  Next  in 
order  it  was  necessary  to  find  a  shop  where  bucellato,  the 
specialty  of  Lucca,  was  kept,  for  we  wished  our  feast  to 
have  every  local  element  possible.  I  will  admit  that  we 
experienced  some  disappointment  in  regard  to  bucellato, 
which  is  a  sweet-cake  of  unyielding  hardness  and  highly 
charged  with  anise.  Arrived  again  at  the  roof  of  the 
Guinigi  Palace,  the  old  servant  came  smilingly  forth  with 
a  key  in  her  hand  and  conducting  us  to  a  big  door,  which 
she  unlocked,  showed  us  the  beginning  of  the  flights  of 
stairs  still  to  IDC  mounted  before  reaching  our  goal.  We 
toiled  up  and  at  last  through  a  trap-door  came  out  upon 
the  leafy  summit  of  our  tower. 

And  what  shall  I  say  of  this  realization  of  our 
anticipations  ?  It  was  all  and  more  than  we  had  dreamed 
it.  There  we  stood  as  though  suspended  in  the  air,  far 
above  the  roofs  of  the  town,  while  on  every  side  spread 
the  lovely  valley  from  which  rose  wooded  hills  dotted 
with  villas.  Beyond  all,  mountain  walls  closed  in  the 
prospect  and  away  in  the  direction  from  which  we  had 
come  rose  Monte  San  Giuliano,  "percbe  i  Pis  an  Lucca 
veder  non  ponno."  The  hour  was  perfect ;  not  a  breeze 
rustled  the  leaves  over  our  heads  and  the  sun,  dipping 
to  the  horizon,  bathed  all  in  the  glorifying  light  that  just 
precedes  sunset.  Neither  was  there  any  disillusionment 
about  our  Babylonish  garden.  The  stout  little  trees 


278  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

were  rooted  in  an  abundant  amount  of  soil  which  had 
been  conveyed  to  the  roof  and  there  disposed  in  deep 
beds,  between  and  around  which  next  the  parapet  was 
ample  room  to  walk  and  sit.  Two  of  the  trees  were 
ilex,  and  on  measuring  we  found  the  trunk  of  one  to  be 
thirty -five  inches  in  circumference.  Here,  then,  we 
spent  an  hour  or  two  of  such  happiness  as  brings 
wonder,  thankfulness,  joy  and  I  know  not  how  many 
other  emotions  in  a  tumult  to  the  heart  and  fills  one 
with  rapture  at  the  heavenly  beauty  of  the  earth,  while 
it  leaves  behind  what  haunts  the  memory  forever. 


VENICE 


"  This  most  noble  city  is  worthily  called  in  Latin,  Venetia,  as  it 
were  vent  etiam,  that  is,  'come  again.'  " 

FYNES  MORISON. 


S  THE  typical  life  of  Venice  is  lived 
upon  the  water,  a  large  part  of 
one's  comfort  and  enjoyment  there 
depends  upon  one's  gondolier.  The 
tourist  who  spends  but  a  few  days 
in  Venice  usually  puts  up  with  a 
gondola  called  at  haphazard  from 
the  traghettOy  or  ferry,  nearest  his 
hotel,  or  picked  up  when  the  spirit 
moves  him  to  embark,  wherever  he  may  be.  Not  so 
the  lover  of  Venice  who  goes  there  to  stay  weeks  or 
months.  The  choice  of  a  gondolier  then  becomes  import- 
ant. Such  rare  good  fortune  presided  at  our  selection 
that  it  has  been  a  matter  for  gratitude  ever  since. 

It  happened  on  this  wise.  Toward  the  middle  of 
our  first  stay  in  Venice  we  became  conscious  of  the 
advantage  of  hiring  a  gondolier  by  the  week,  and  as 
some  friends  were  leaving  who  had  an  excellent  one  we 
thought  it  a  good  opportunity  to  engage  him.  This 
project  was  frustrated  through  our  own  ignorance,  for 
having  unwittingly  infringed  the  immutable  laws  of 

279 


280  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

gondolier  etiquette  all  hope  of  securing  Lorenzo  was  at 
an  end.  Coming  out  upon  the  steps  leading  down  to 
the  water  in  front  of  our  hotel  on  the  last  evening 
of  Lorenzo's  engagement  with  our  friends,  I  asked  him 
if  he  would  not  like  to  take  service  with  us.  A  con- 
versation ensued,  at  the  end  of  which  Lorenzo,  with  a 
backward  fling  of  his  hand  toward  the  group  of  gon- 
doliers listening  near  by,  exclaimed  aloud  with  impatient 
hopelessness, — 

"  I  cannot,  Signora,  because  of  these  !  " 
The  meaning  of  this  was,  that  our  hotel  having  a 
traghetto  close  to  its  door,  the  gondoliers  belonging  to  it 
considered  it  their  right  to  serve  the  guests.  It  would 
not  do  for  a  gondolier  belonging  to  another  traghettoy 
like  Lorenzo,  to  appear  to  have  wormed  himself  into  the 
good  graces  of  any  one  whose  patronage  he  had  no  right 
to  solicit,  as  might  have  appeared  in  this  case.  If,  how- 
ever, the  gondolier  has  made  no  advances,  but  is  chosen 
uninfluenced,  he  may  without  reproach  accept  such  an 
appointment.  On  receiving  an  engagement  by  the  week, 
he  goes  into  "costume," — that  is,  he  dresses  with  espec- 
ial elegance  himself  and  gets  out  his  best  cushions  and 
new  carpet,  which  in  general  are  not  used  when  he  is 
merely  on  the  traghetto.  Then  for  eight  lire  a  day  he 
becomes  your  servant,  and  besides  having  the  gondola 
ready  for  you  at  all  hours  of  the  day  or  evening,  does 
any  errands  you  may  send  him  on  or  otherwise  occupies 
himself  as  you  direct. 

So  a  little  scene  is  sometimes  arranged  by  the  know- 
ing, to  establish  a  right  to  a  certain  gondolier.  Two 
friends  of  ours  who  wished  to  engage  a  gondolier  they 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  from  another  traghetto,  laid  plans 
with  him  beforehand,  and  accordingly  walked  away  from 
the  hotel  one  morning,  apparently  for  sight-seeing  on  foot. 
At  a  prearranged  point  they  met  their  gondolier,  whose 


VENICE.      GIOVANNI. 


VENICE 


281 


boat  and  clothes  were  carefully  prepared  to  look  their 
worst,  and  he  rowed  them  back  to  their  hotel.  Having 
arrived  they  turned  and,  taking  care  to  be  overheard, 
praised  his  rowing  and  announced  that  they  wished  on 
the  spot  to  engage  him  permanently.  He  enacted  sur- 
prise, gratification  and  consent,  and  retired  to  return  "  in 
costume  "  and  belong  to  them  thereafter. 

In  some  such  way  we  should  have  approached  our 
own  affair ;  but  as  I  said,  lack  of  knowledge  having  put 
an  end  to  it,  we  felt  aggrieved  and  the  next  morning 
refused  to  take  a  gondola  from  the  interfering  traghetto 
and  walked  away  to  another.  Coming  out  upon  this,  we 
perceived  among  the  men  waiting  for  custom  the  very 
flower  of  gondoliers,  as  far  as  appearances  went,  young, 
handsome  as  a  picture,  and  beautifully  dressed.  I  made 
it  known  that  I  wished  him  to  row  us  that  morning.  He 
rose  respectfully,  but  stood  still  while  the  head  of  the 
traghetto  stepped  forward  and  said, — 

"It  is  not  his  turn,  Signora ;  here  is  the  next  gon- 
dola in  order.  They  are  all  alike." 

The  last  was  not  true,  for  there  is  a  great  difference 
even  in  gondolas  on  the  same  traghetto.  Baffled  again 
I  shook  my  head  and  turned  to  depart ;  but  at  that 
moment  the  first  gondolier  sprang  forward  and  without 
any  further  hindrance  put  himself  at  our  disposal.  The 
explanation  of  this,  I  learned  later,  was  that  it  is  the  duty 
of  the  head  of  the  traghetto  to  endeavor  to  have  the  man 
next  in  line  employed  but  if  the  patron  holds  out  and  will 
take  no  other  the  preferred  one  is  allowed  to  go. 

The  gondola  of  our  boatman  was  as  beautiful  and 
well-appointed  as  himself  and  after  a  few  days'  trial, 
being  forewarned,  we  secured  in  proper  form  the  best 
gondolier  in  Venice,  as  we  hold.  Giovanni  was  now 
ours  and  it  became  the  order  of  the  day  that  he  should 
appear  at  the  steps  of  the  hotel  soon  after  our  breakfast 


28z  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

hour,  to  be  ready  to  take  us  out  for  the  morning.  At 
noon  we  returned  to  the  hotel  for  colazione  and  a  rest 
afterwards;  at  three  or  four  we  again  went  out  with 
Giovanni,  to  return  for  dinner;  and  at  eight  or  nine 
embarked  once  more  to  float  about  till  eleven.  This 
routine,  of  course  varied  sometimes,  is  repeated  on  this 
our  second  visit,  only  at  our  arrival  we  had  some  trouble 
in  finding  Giovanni.  He  had  changed  his  traghetto  and 
our  letter  was  long  in  reaching  him.  Upon  the  first 
morning  we  of  course  walked  to  St.  Mark's,  and  later, 
coming  out  upon  the  piazzetta,  took  the  first  gondolier 
who  offered.  He  was  an  old  man,  well  and  neatly 
dressed  and  with  a  fine  face  and  gentle  serious  express- 
ion. After  a  little  he  told  us  that  he  had  formerly 
been  gondolier  many  seasons  to  Professor  Rooskeen. 
Although  expected  to  be  immediately  aware  of  the  Pro- 
fessor's fame,  we  did  not  at  once  realize  that  he  meant 
Mr.  Ruskin.  When  we  did,  of  course  we  were  properly 
impressed  and  although  he  did  not  voluntarily  gossip 
about  his  beloved  master,  he  said  enough  to  show  his 
attachment  and  reverence  for  him  and  let  us  know  that 
he  was  still  in  communication  with  the  family. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Ruskin  made  you  a  present  of  your 
gondola  ?  "  said  I. 

"  A  tiro  !  "  he  replied,  and  the  emphasis  of  consent 
contained  in  this  word  is  such  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  express  it  in  any  one  English  vocable.  About  himself 
and  his  affairs  the  old  man  talked  freely.  He  is  seventy- 
two  years  old  but  goes  out  to  work  every  day  and  rows 
well  but  slowly,  not  with  the  powerful  and  sustained 
stroke  of  Giovanni.  He  cannot  work  many  hours,  he 
says,  and  not  in  the  evening  for  he  must  go  to  bed  early. 
He  has  many  cares,  a  widowed  daughter  with  children 
to  support  besides  one  or  two  other  stray  members  of 
the  family. 


VENICE  283 

He  spoke  with  such  simplicity  and  charm  that  we 
talked  long  with  him.  It  was  his  birthday,  as  it  hap- 
pened, and  we  asked  if  there  would  not  be  a  feast  in 
honor  of  it  that  evening  —  meat  perhaps,  as  not  being 
eaten  every  day.  He  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  No, 
there  would  not  be  meat ;  but  then  he  did  not  care  much 
for  that — he  preferred  fish,  even  if  there  were  a  choice. 
When  we  parted  each  of  us  gave  him  a  little  present,  one 
for  wine,  one  for  fish,  and  so  on,  telling  him  he  must 
have  the  best  dinner  possible  that  night.  He  was  much 
amused  and  gratified  at  this,  and  later  took  the  trouble  to 
find  Giovanni  out  for  us  and  send  him  to  our  hotel. 

Giovanni  dresses  in  fine  white  duck  suits  with  blue 
sailor  collar  and  wears  a  wide-brimmed  white  straw  hat  with 
a  blue  ribbon.  His  well-fitting  russet  leather  shoes  are 
as  neat  as  possible,  and  he  tells  us  his  wife  has  to  furnish 
him  a  fresh  suit  of  clothes  once  in  three  days.  Every- 
thing about  the  gondola  is  handsome  and  well  tended, 
the  ferro  or  tall  steel  beak,  shining,  the  brasses  polished, 
the  carpets  and  cushions  clean  and  fresh.  Instead  of  one 
rather  uncomfortable  chair  to  add  to  the  gondola  in 
case  of  needing  an  extra  seat,  Giovanni  has  two  handsome 
and  comfortable  ones  with  high  carved  backs,  and  after 
some  search  to  procure  it  we  have  a  flag  of  our  own,  red, 
with  the  lion  of  St.  Mark  upon  it  in  brown  and  gold. 
Giovanni  is  the  prince  of  gondoliers.  As  Charles  the 
Second  said  of  his  minister  Godolphin,  "  he  is  never  in 
the  way  and  never  out  of  it."  He  rows  silently  when 
we  are  busy  talking  with  one  another,  but  is  always  ready 
to  answer  every  question,  to  talk  or  to  tell  us  tales  of 
Venice  when  we  are  ready  to  listen  and  be  amused. 
Then  he  is  so  sensible  and  resourceful.  If  we  are  likely 
to  be  cheated  at  an  antiquity  shop,  Giovanni  steps  out 
of  the  gondola  and  murmurs  in  my  ear  that  prices  are 
high  in  that  place  and  we  had  better  purchase  elsewhere. 


284  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

He  is  untiring  and  always  insists  that  he  is  not  fatigued 
and  can  keep  on  working  indefinitely. 

He  knows  what  will  please  us,  and  when  we  sink 
back  upon  the  gondola  cushions  of  an  evening  we  find 
that  " Dovunque  volete"  (Wherever  you  please)  is  a 
charming  place  to  go  to,  for  then  we  float  to  beautiful 
lonely  spaces  on  the  wide  lagoons  where  there  is  utter 
peace  and  silence  and  the  magic  lights  of  the  city  grow 
small  in  the  distance,  and  there  we  are  rocked  and  lulled 
into  oblivion  of  all  earthly  care  and  trouble,  like  the 
lotus-eaters.  But  there  is  no  monotony  with  Giovanni. 
One  night  he  carried  us  with  firm,  smooth  strokes  along 
the  curving  shore-line,  far  out  toward  the  Lido,  and  then 
turning  he  brought  us  in  on  the  flow  of  the  high  tide 
with  a  magnificent  rush,  the  gondola  panting  and  strain- 
ing under  his  hand,  poising  itself  with  a  little  tremor 
at  each  powerful  stroke  and  then  sweeping  forward  like  a 
great  bird.  We  meanwhile  vibrating  with  delicious 
excitement  felt  the  boat  under  us  as  a  live  palpitating 
thing. 

We  love  to  stay  out  upon  the  wide  waters  at  night, 
and  whether  it  is  moonlight  or  starlight,  clear  or  cloudy, 
it  is  always  just  as  beautiful  and  just  as  perfect  in  tem- 
perature, for  here  it  is  not  necessary  to  suffer  an  oppress- 
ive day  in  order  to  have  a  soft  warm  evening.  In  the 
daytime,  if  we  have  no  plan  for  study  or  sight-seeing, 
Giovanni  takes  us  to  the  most  curious  and  interesting 
spots  and  shows  us  the  strangest  old  courts  and  build- 
ings, the  quaintest  back  canals,  and  everything  that  is 
pictorially  ruinous  and  sketchable.  Giovanni,  beautiful 
and  debonair  as  he  is,  has  his  cares.  He  has  a  wife  and 
baby  of  two  years,  a  father  of  eighty,  and  I  believe, 
another  relative  or  two  toward  whose  support  he  con- 
tributes. He  has  to  lay  up  in  summer  for  the  winter, 
when  there  is  little  for  the  boatmen  to  do.  With  all  his 


VENICE  285 

easy  communicativeness,  he  has  always  maintained  a  self- 
respecting  reticence  in  regard  to  his  family  affairs  and 
though  we  had  for  some  time  wished  he  would  take  us 
to  his  home  we  had  never  quite  ventured  to  ask  it. 
When  at  length  we  cautiously  brought  up  the  subject, 
we  found  him  politely  acquiescent  and  so  it  led  to  our 
putting  on  our  best  gloves  one  afternoon,  taking  cards 
with  us  and  proposing  to  Giovanni  to  conduct  us  to  his 
house. 

He  rowed  us  some  distance  to  the  little  canal  of  the 
Materdomini,  a  narrow  slip  of  water,  darkling  between 
its  upsoaring  stone  barriers.  These  however  were  not 
unbroken  at  the  top;  buildings  of  unequal  height  left 
gaps  for  the  sunshine  to  stream  through  and  in  one 
place  a  curtain  of  vine  swept  over  the  high  wall  of  a  hid- 
den garden.  Giovanni  gave  a  long  sibilant  whistle,  the 
gondola  stopped  at  a  narrow  stair  and  in  a  moment  his 
smiling  wife  appeared,  ready  to  receive  us.  Upon  the 
ground  floor  just  above  the  water-line  was  a  big  brick- 
paved  room  where  all  the  trappings  of  the  gondola  were 
kept,  needing  a  large  space  —  the  funereal  felsey  the  sum- 
mer canopy,  etc.,  and  where  the  gondola  itself  could  be 
housed  when  desirable.  From  there  we  mounted  to  the 
dwelling,  up  three  flights  of  stairs,  not  dark  and  con- 
tracted but  clean  and  well  lighted,  getting  glimpses  on 
the  way  of  the  families  who  occupied  the  intervening 
stories.  Giovanni  himself  could  not,  of  course,  leave 
the  gondola,  but  his  wife  gave  us  no  grudging  welcome 
and  was  full  of  eager  hospitality.  She  was  bella  donna^  as 
the  Italians  say,  plump  and  fair,  with  a  mass  of  curly 
light-brown  hair  and  fine  dark  eyes.  At  the  top.  the 
third  member  of  the  family  stood  shyly  peering  down,  a 
baby  of  two  years,  a  pretty  little  thing,  but  delicate  and 
slender  in  spite  of  his  robust  parentage  and  very  bashful 
in  his  demeanor  toward  strangers. 


286  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

The  quartiere  consisted  of  a  hallway  of  quite  gen- 
erous width  and  four  small  rooms  opening  from  it,  two 
to  the  front  and  two  to  the  back  of  the  house.  Being 
just  below  the  roof,  there  was  light  and  good  ventilation 
together  with  a  pleasant  outlook.  It  was  a  homelike 
little  place,  but  what  struck  us  most  was  the  perfect  neat- 
ness of  everything.  The  walls  tinted  in  light  colors 
looked  as  though  freshly  done  the  day  before,  the 
smooth  wood  floors  were  white  as  scrubbing  could  make 
them,  the  furniture  was  excellent  and  solid.  In  the 
tiny  parlor  there  were  two  chests  of  drawers  besides  a 
sofa  and  chairs.  Its  one  window  was  full  of  potted 
plants  and  draped  with  white  muslin  curtains  and  upon  the 
walls  were  framed  photographs  and  colored  prints.  The 
bedroom  was  even  more  imposing  with  its  furniture  of 
heavy  black  walnut.  It  is  absolutely  necessary,  by  the 
way,  that  a  gondolier's  bride  should  bring  with  her  to 
her  husband  a  walnut  bed.  No  matter  what  may  be  the 
elegance  or  cheapness  of  other  woods,  of  iron  or  of 
brass,  nothing  but  walnut  can  be  for  a  moment  consid- 
ered and  the  handsomest  that  can  be  afforded.  Anto- 
nina's  left  nothing  to  be  desired  and  the  chamber  was 
fully  furnished  to  match  it.  The  white  covers  of  the 
bedstead  were  edged  with  home-made  lace  and  embroi- 
dered with  large  initials  in  red.  Nina  told  us  that  this 
was  all  the  work  of  her  own  hands. 

The  kitchen  was  the  prettiest  room  of  all,  larger 
than  the  others,  and  with  its  walls  hung  with  copper 
utensils  of  every  kind.  All  the  shapes  were  graceful  and 
beautiful,  even  the  water-buckets  were  pictorial.  These 
things  are  the  pride  of  an  Italian  housekeeper's  heart, 
and  are  kept  as  bright  as  assiduous  polishing  can  make 
them.  A  shelf  at  one  side  held  a  row  of  tall  brass  can- 
dlesticks and  an  old-fashioned  tailor's  goose  with  a 
dragon's  head.  Besides  these  three  rooms,  the  principal 


VENICE  287 

ones  of  the  establishment,  there  was  another  which  pro- 
voked some  surprise.  Just  as  neat  and  exquisitely  kept 
as  the  others,  it  held  a  small  carpenter's  bench  in  one 
corner  which  Antonina  said  Giovanni  used  when  he  had 
time  for  it,  for  he  could  turn  his  hand  to  anything. 
Near  by  were  long  panels  of  beautifully  carved  wood 
and  certain  choice  mountings  of  shining  brass,  portions, 
gathered  little  by  little,  of  the  new  gondola  which 
Giovanni  is  going  to  have  when  he  has  saved  up  enough 
to  complete  the  purchase,  for  although  the  present  one 
is  still  handsome,  Giovanni's  ambition  soars  beyond  it 
and  he  will  soon  be  the  proud  possessor  of  one  of  the 
finest  gondolas  in  Venice. 

Upon  the  walls  of  this  room  were  fastened  a  num- 
ber of  sketches  in  oil,  all  by  one  hand,  and  showing  so 
much  knowledge  that  we  wondered  at  them  till  later, 
when  their  presence  there  was  explained.  For  this  apart- 
ment and  the  use  of  the  big  room  below  they  pay  a  little 
less  than  four  dollars  a  month  and  with  regard  to  the 
management  of  their  other  expenses  they  must  be  frugal 
and  thrifty  or  they  could  never  afford  the  large  outlay 
for  the  new  gondola.  Giovanni  was  employed  very 
young  in  the  household  of  a  noble  Polish  family  who 
lived  in  Venice  until  lately,  and  he  grew  up,  so  to  speak, 
with  the  only  son  who  seems  to  have  been  a  boy  of 
great  promise.  The  young  Count  studied  painting  and 
the  sketches  just  mentioned  were  his,  afterward  given  to 
Giovanni.  Giovanni  often  posed  for  his  young  master 
and  was  even  allowed  to  try  his  own  hand  at  the  brush 
sometimes.  This  explained  what  we  had  noticed  more 
than  once- — that  is,  the  easy  and  flexible  way  in  which 
Giovanni  falls  into  a  good  pose  when  requested  to 
serve  as  model  for  the  camera.  As  Giovanni  grew 
older  he  became  gondolier  to  the  family  and  never 
left  them  until  the  death  of  the  young  Count  a  few 


288  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

years  ago.  This  blow  caused  the  family  to  break 
up  their  home  in  Venice  and  they  removed  to  Paris, 
whither  they  would  gladly  have  carried  Giovanni.  He, 
however,  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  go  on 
account  of  a  firm  conviction  of  his  that  Paris  is  a 
city  of  the  most  abandoned  wickedness.  Had  they 
gone  almost  anywhere  else  he  would  have  followed  them, 
he  says.  As  it  was,  Giovanni  remained  behind  but 
not  alone,  for  he  married  Antonina,  who  was  cook  in 
the  same  family,  and  they  then  set  up  their  own  little 
establishment. 

A  gondolier's  life  is  anything  but  an  easy  one  for 
the  hours  are  long  and  Sundays  are  included,  while  the 
gain  is  fluctuating.  It  is  the  ambition  of  the  gondolier 
to  have  engagements  with  private  families  for  then  he  is 
excused  from  duty  on  the  traghetto  and  the  hours  are 
shorter,  besides  which  he  earns  a  fixed  sum  each  day. 
Giovanni  says  his  baby  boy  may  be  anything  he  pleases 
when  he  grows  up  excepting  a  gondolier.  This  however 
is  not  on  account  of  the  hard  work  but  because  Giovanni 
thinks  the  reputation  of  the  profession  is  no  longer  what 
it  was.  That  for  one  thing  they  are  reputed  extortionate 
in  their  charges  is  not,  Giovanni  says,  always  their  fault 
but  the  fault  of  that  august  being,  the  hotel  portiere.  This 
personage  Giovanni  represents  as  quite  satanic  in  his 
cunning  and  the  possessor  of  so  many  perquisites  that  he 
often  makes  more  money  than  the  hotel  proprietor  him- 
self. One  of  his  methods  of  procedure  is  as  follows: 
new-comers  in  Venice,  if  they  are  ignorant  of  the  lan- 
guage and  luxuriously  inclined,  call  upon  the  portiere  on 
all  occasions  and  of  course  depend  upon  him  to  order 
gondolas  and  make  bargains  for  excursions.  The  por- 
tiere secures  the  gondola  therefore  and  announces  the 
price,  which  will  often  be  in  excess  of  the  real  charge  to 
the  amount  of  a  half  or  even  more.  At  the  end  of  the 


VENICE.      PALAZZO  DARIO. 


VENICE  289 

time  he  pays  the  gondolier  the  usual  sum  and  pockets 
his  handsome  commission. 

On  one  occasion,  when  Giovanni  happened  to  be  the 
gondolier  called,  the  price  was  set  at  an  extravagant 
figure,  as  usual,  and  on  the  return  of  the  party  the 
officious  portiere  was  at  the  steps  to  murmur  to  the  head 
of  the  family  that  the  charge  would  be  put  on  the  bill. 
The  gentleman,  however,  who  had  developed  during  the 
afternoon  an  unpleasant  independence  of  mind,  brushed 
the  portiere  aside  saying, — 

"  No,  no ;  you  need  not  trouble  to  charge  it.  I 
will  pay  the  man  myself." 

With  this  he  actually  handed  over  to  Giovanni  the 
double  sum  originally  arranged  for,  under  the  very  eyes  of 
the  chagrined  portiere,  whose  sensations  may  be  imagined, 
obliged  as  he  was  to  look  helplessly  on  while  the  whole 
of  his  magnificent  profit  was  recklessly  transferred  to 
Giovanni. 

But  to  return  to  our  visit.  When  Antonina  had 
shown  us  all  over  her  establishment,  she  left  us  in  the 
parlor  to  which  she  returned  in  a  moment  to  offer  us 
some  excellent  marsala  and  little  sweet-cakes.  It  seemed 
to  be  a  point  of  etiquette  for  her  then  to  glide  quietly 
out  of  the  room  so  that  we  might  consume  these  refresh- 
ments relieved  of  the  embarrassment  of  her  presence. 
Upon  her  return  we  tarried  to  chat  a  little  longer  and  to 
tell  her  of  our  satisfaction  in  her  husband's  good  service. 
She  listened  to  our  encomiums  pleased  but  not  unduly 
elated  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  proudly  con- 
scious of  their  being  entirely  deserved. 

<c  Giovanni  is  always  liked,"  she  smilingly  remarked 
as  we  rose  to  leave;  "  he  has  such  good  manners."  To 
which  we  heartily  acceded. 

On  our  way  home  we  threaded  certain  remote 
sluggish  canals  where  sad  old  palaces  look  down  upon 


290  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

the  voyager.  Their  carved  stonework  is  disintegrating 
and  the  tooth  of  time  has  gnawed  the  design  half  away. 
Their  splendid  iron  grills  are  rusting  apart  and  the  lower 
windows  are  draped  thick  with  cobwebs,  while  along  their 
water-line  crabs  scuttle  aside  at  the  approach  of  the  gon- 
dola. These  are  the  palaces  that  bring  to  one's  mind 
with  a  pang  the  creeping  malady  that  is  said  to  have 
struck  them  all.  The  waters,  once  moved  only  by  the 
imperceptible  tides  or  the  slow  passage  of  the  gondolas, 
are  now  perpetually  forced  against  their  foundations  by 
the  pert  steamers  that  ply  ceaselessly  up  and  down  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  so  a  process  of  gradual  undermining 
goes  on.  And  not  only  do  the  palaces  suffer,  but  the 
gondolas  themselves  are  injured.  With  every  passing 
of  a  steamer  these  same  waves  lift  all  the  gondolas  lying 
side  by  side  at  the  traghetti  and  grind  them  against  one 
another  over  and  over,  to  their  considerable  detriment  in 
the  end.  No  wonder  therefore  that  the  gondoliers  have 
more  than  one  cause  of  grievance  against  these  hated 
intruders.  A  little  saddened  by  these  thoughts  and  the 
dejection  and  decay  about  us,  we  gradually  fell  into 
silence.  Venice  grew  old  in  our  thoughts,  and  youth 
and  beauty  seemed  taking  a  mournful  farewell  of  it. 

At  this  moment  a  diversion  occurred  that  lightened 
our  spirits  and  reminded  us  that  flowers  cling  most 
fondly  to  crumbling  walls,  and  youth  and  sweetness  ever 
spring  freshly  up  to  cover  the  ravages  of  time.  In  the 
air  just  above  our  heads  appeared  two  small  dangling 
objects  which  with  many  jerks  and  vibrations  were 
slowly  descending  toward  the  water.  On  examination 
they  proved  to  be  toy  buckets  to  which  were  attached 
lengths  of  twine,  and  glancing  upward  we  discovered 
that  they  proceeded  from  a  tiny  balcony  upon  the  third 
story  of  the  old  palazzo  opposite.  This  balconcino  was 
just  large  enough  to  hold  the  two  babies  crouching  upon 


VENICE  291 

it,  only  the  tops  of  whose  curly  heads  we  could  discern 
as  they  bent  low  over  their  play.  They  were  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  battered  little  tin  pails,  and  they  were 
painstakingly  lowering  them  but  without  following  them 
with  their  eyes.  Fortunately  we  were  as  usual  provided 
with  some  bullet-like  sugar-plums,  approved  by  the 
infants  of  Venice,  among  whom  we  liked  to  distribute 
them,  and  capturing  the  playthings  just  before  they  had 
time  to  dip  into  the  canal  we  filled  them  with  something 
far  more  acceptable  than  salt  water. 

All  this  time  the  babies  had  not  looked  down,  but 
feeling,  as  they  supposed,  the  usual  arresting  of  their 
buckets  as  they  met  the  water,  they  began  laboriously  to 
draw  them  up  again.  We  watched  quietly  and  as  they 
reached  the  balcony  we  saw  the  little  hands  stretched 
through  the  iron  railing  to  steady  them  and  draw  them 
i-n.  At  first  there  was  silence,  next  agitated  exclamations 
could  be  heard,  and  then  two  little  faces  peered  down 
with  almost  an  expression  of  awe  and  eyes  as  large  as 
saucers.  As  they  perceived  the  earthly  origin  of  their 
astounding  good  fortune,  the  two  little  countenances 
broke  into  dimples  and  then  into  happy  laughter.  For 
a  moment  they  hung  over  the  railing,  trembling  between 
delight  and  wonder,  and  then  scrambled  through  the 
window  behind  them,  no  longer  able  to  wait  before 
imparting  their  marvellous  adventure  to  the  mother 
within. 

To  desert  the  water  just  at  the  loveliest  time  of  day, 
to  turn  one's  back  upon  the  sunset  and  repair  to  a  hot 
dining-room  glittering  with  electric  lights,  there  to  labor 
through  the  courses  of  a  long  table  d'hote  dinner  is  a 
hardship  not  willingly  submitted  to  by  true  lovers  of 
Venice.  Especially  is  this  the  case  in  the  late  summer 
evenings  which  are  here  of  such  matchless  beauty.  To 
avoid  this  as  often  as  possible  has  been  our  study,  and  an 


292  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

account  of  our  measures,  taking  one  day  as  an  example, 
will  show  how  easily  and  delightfully  it  may  be  contrived. 
Having  floated  about  most  of  the  afternoon,  toward 
six  o'clock  we  touched  at  the  hotel  steps,  where  a  hamper 
already  packed  was  handed  out  to  Giovanni,  who  stowed 
it  safely  in  the  gondola.  Then  we  cruised  along  the 
Riva  and  passing  in  at  the  Rio  del  Palazzo,  stopped  at 
the  bridge  of  the  Canonica.  Here  you  land  on  the 
right-hand  side  and  slipping  into  a  narrow  street,  pur- 
chase of  worthy  Nicolo  Monego  a  loaf  of  panetone,  a 
specialty  of  Venice  and  one  of  the  most  toothsome  mor- 
sels to  be  found  in  the  world.  It  is  sweet,  it  is  light,  it 
is  plummy,  and  its  refined  exterior,  circular  and  some- 
what pyramidal,  is  of  an  even  golden-brown,  most  invit- 
ing to  the  eye.  Panetone  under  a  slightly  changed  name 
is  made  in  several  places  in  Italy  but  the  acme  of  perfec- 
tion is  reached  only  by  Nicolo  Monego — may  his  shadow 
never  grow  less ! 

After  this  we  chose  some  fruit  at  a  shop,  for  even  in 
Italy  it  is  not  invariably  good  and  the  selection  requires 
personal  supervision.  We  left  the  place  with  a  small 
watermelon  in  a  sling,  trailing  along  in  the  water  after  us. 
Thereafter  two  gondolas  might  have  been  seen  gliding 
out  upon  the  lagoon  in  the  direction  of  Saint  George  of 
the  Seaweed,  that  mysterious  little  island  presided  over 
by  one  of  our  favorite  Madonnas.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  landing  there,  to  be  sure,  for  high  walls  enclose 
it,  rising  sheer  from  the  water's  edge  excepting  at  one 
point  where  a  small  inlet  might  receive  a  boat.  This 
however  is  forbidden,  so  one  can  only  look  longingly  at 
the  tree- tops  swaying  above  the  barriers  which  betray  a 
concealed  garden.  Upon  one  corner  of  the  ancient  wall 
stands  the  sweet  mistress  of  the  place,  whose  gentle 
presence  it  is  that  draws  us  often  to  this  spot,  a  little 
Madonna  holding  the  laughing  bambino  upon  one  arm, 


VENICE  293 

while  from  the  other  hand  swings  the  tablet  Giovanni 
calls  a  pazienza.  Above  her  head  a  bronze  canopy 
stretches  a  slight  shelter  from  sun  and  rain  and  so  from 
her  height  she  smiles  down  upon  devout  worshipers 
like  us. 

Rowing  slowly  toward  her,  for  the  evening  was  warm, 
we  met  a  heavy  black  barge,  which  for  lack  of  wind  was 
being  poled  laboriously  along  the  lagoon  toward  Venice. 
It  looked  like  exhausting  work  for  only  two  men,  and 
the  long  oars  bent  with  each  push.  One  of  the  men 
presently  hailed  our  skipper  in  the  extreme  of  the  Vene- 
tian dialect  and  Giovanni  interpreted  to  us. 

"  They  want  to  know  if  we  can  give  them  some 
water,  Madama.  They  have  none  left  and  it  will  be 
some  time  before  they  can  get  to  the  city  in  this  calm." 

We  instantly  decided  to  give  them  half  our  supply 
even  if  we  fell  short.  They  looked  spent  and  the  face 
of  one  was  almost  mahogany-color  with  exertion  and 
heat.  So  we  rowed  quickly  to  the  side  of  their  big  craft 
and  handed  it  up.  They  gulped  it  down,  seeming  hardly 
to  stop  to  swallow,  and  we  added  a  donation  of  bread 
and  fruit  which  they  received  with  a  thankfulness  almost 
touching.  They  rested  but  a  few  moments  and  then 
resumed  their  hard  work  while  we  pursued  our  way  east- 
ward. 

Having  arrived  opposite  the  shrine  of  our  gracious 
Madonna,  we  soon  found  a  convenient  group  of  piles 
beside  which  to  steady  our  two  gondolas,  holding  this 
evening  four  friends  and  a  pair  of  faithful  gondoliers. 
The  cushioned  throne  of  one  gondola  and  the  comfort- 
able stuffed  chairs  yielded  the  four  seats  necessary,  for 
the  quartette  was  to  sup  together  in  it,  and  a  table  was 
arranged  extending  across  and  broad  enough  to  support 
the  feast  then  spread  forth  and  served  to  us  by  our  assid- 
uous servants  in  livery.  At  this  banquet  there  is  usually 


294  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

cold  fowl,  accompanied  by  tongue  or  ham,  then  follows  a 
salad,  next  the  fanetone  with  cheese  and  lastly  fruit  and 
wine.  The  eatables  are  neatly  packed  at  the  hotel, 
together  with  plenty  of  plates  and  glasses,  and  when 
dessert  has  been  put  on  the  remains  of  the  earlier  courses 
are  handed  back  to  Luigi  and  Giovanni,  who  then  take 
supper  side  by  side  at  the  stern,  murmuring  together  in 
quiet  and  friendly  conversation.  At  one  point  in  the 
feast  just  described  a  little  skiff  neared  us  and  the  two 
occupants  invited  us  in  passing  to  partake  of  some  "  fruit 
of  the  sea."  As  we  are  ever  hospitable  to  the  idea  of 
such  experiments,  we  consented  and  they  paused  beside 
us  and  opened  cockles,  serving  them  to  us  on  the  half- 
shell  till  we  were  satisfied.  We  felt  more  interest  in  the 
pretty  variegated  shells  than  in  their  contents,  which 
proved  to  be  curiously  unpalatable.  They  were  not 
wasted  however,  finding  great  acceptance  with  Giovanni 
and  Luigi. 

If  I  have  dwelt  at  some  length  upon  the  material 
side  of  this  occasion,  it  is  not  because  it  was  in  itself  the 
most  important.  As  I  have  said,  we  could  have  dined 
more  variously  and  far  more  extendedly  by  remaining 
at  home,  but  then  should  we  have  seen  Venice  in  its 
most  enthralling  hour  ?  With  the  gondola's  beak  pointed 
toward  the  west  we  watched  the  oncoming  sunset.  The 
atmosphere  was  sifted  gold;  the  water  took  on  the  same 
hue,  and  in  its  soft  and  glassy  undulations  seemed  ever 
moving  silently  on,  drawn  toward  the  core  of  light  and 
color  whose  blending  gradations  were  melting  from  amber 
to  gold  and  then  to  orange.  Off  against  the  horizon  in 
the  vaporous  distance  loomed  a  chain  of  dream-moun- 
tains, their  luminous  bases  and  soft  withdrawing  shadows 
almost  dissolving  as  one  gazed  at  them — the  mighty 
Alps.  And  then  as  the  gathering  twilight  deepened  we 
glided  slowly  back  toward  the  long  tremulous  lines  of 


VENICE  295 

light  which  from  the  Riva  stretched  themselves  far  to 
meet  us  across  the  wide  floor  of  the  waters. 

There  is  much  music  on  the  canals  every  night  in 
Venice  and  if  one  is  to  be  candid  one  must  reluctantly 
confess  that  of  late  years  it  is  not  often  good.  Boats 
filled  with  singers  begin  to  appear  about  eight  in  the 
evening  and  stop  before  the  hotels  which  are  massed 
together  close  to  the  entrance  of  the  Grand  Canal;  or 
they  pause  a  little  way  out  in  the  stream  where  passing 
gondolas  may  gather  round  them.  If  these  singers 
would  only  confine  themselves  to  warbling  in  chorus 
their  own  charming  melodies,  of  which  there  are  so  many, 
it  would  be  delightful.  This  however  is  not  their  idea 
of  what  the  tourist  desires,  and  so  one  must  oftener 
listen  to  grand  arias  sung  by  thin  unsteady  sopranos  or 
harsh  worn  baritones;  or,  worse  still,  must  give  ear  to 
'modern  romantic  songs  ending  with  an  explosive  shriek 
upon  the  last  high  note,  that  alas !  always  wins  applause 
and  encourages  the  perpetrator  to  go  on.  Most  of  the 
singers  are  working  people,  employed  all  day  in  various 
industries  and  devoting  their  evenings  in  the  summer  to 
making  in  this  way  an  addition  to  their  income.  Gio- 
vanni tells  us  that  they  receive,  when  the  money  is 
divided  up,  from  a  dollar  to  a  dollar  and  a  half  an  even- 
ing. As  the  poor  creatures  keep  it  up  till  midnight,  one 
wonders  how  they  endure  the  continuous  loss  of  rest. 

This  is  the  music  of  every  night,  but  at  intervals 
there  is  a  water-concert  on  the  Grand  Canal,  a  thing  to 
take  part  in  if  possible  and  to  long  remember,  and  if  it 
be  full  moon  then  the  last  touch  is  added  to  something 
beautiful  and  unique.  Lately  there  was  such  an  oppor- 
tunity and  Giovanni  came  for  us  early  in  the  evening,  as 
the  music  barge  was  already  in  waiting  at  the  other 
extremity  of  the  city.  We  fled  down  the  Grand  Canal, 
urged  by  long  sweeps  of  the  oar,  as  Giovanni  had 


296  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

ordained  that  we  should  have  a  choice  position  for  the 
occasion.  At  last  we  came  in  sight  of  the  concert  barge, 
which  was  a  bower  of  green  foliage  twinkling  with  lan- 
terns of  the  Italian  green,  red  and  white,  all  these 
brilliant  globes  being  reflected  upon  the  water  in  long 
waving  ribbons  of  color.  Just  as  we  reached  it  we  took 
a  magnificent  curve  and  sweeping  round  came  up  nearly 
abreast  of  it  and  about  twenty  feet  away,  the  right  position 
for  hearing  in  the  open  air.  In  a  few  minutes  the  barge 
showed  signs  of  moving  and  immediately  scores  of  gon- 
dolas began  silently  to  close  in  upon  it  till  a  solid  mass 
had  formed.  It  was  the  most  democratic  assemblage 
imaginable.  Elegant  gondolas  with  parties  of  hand- 
somely-dressed people  lay  close  to  others  containing  the 
roughest,  and  I  regret  to  say,  dirtiest  young  boatmen, 
but  nobody  gave  way,  for  it  was  first  come  first  served. 
Of  course  every  gondolier's  aim  was  to  keep  the  position 
once  gained  but  it  was  only  to  be  done  at  the  same  price 
as  that  of  liberty !  The  officials  on  the  concert  boat  did 
not  wish  that  important  vessel  to  be  crowded  in  its  pas- 
sage up  the  canal,  and  on  the  other  hand  if  the  gondoliers 
allowed  six  inches  of  water  to  appear  between  their  crafts 
a  stealthy  prow  or  stern  was  on  the  alert  to  wedge  itself 
in  instantly  and  steal  a  place.  The  officials  yelled  orders 
to  make  room  and  waved  their  arms  wildly  in  the  air. 
The  gondoliers  pretended  to  give  way  and  really  held 
their  ground  for  dear  life.  At  the  prow  of  the  big  barge 
was  a  pump  and  hose,  and  at  intervals  this  was  plied 
forcibly  to  clear  the  space  just  in  front,  but  wily  Gio- 
vanni never  allowed,  his  gondola  to  get  far  enough 
forward  to  run  any  risk,  and  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  the  two  hours  had  hardly  changed  his  position  in 
relation  to  the'concert  boat  by  two  feet. 

The   mass    of    boats   was    now    moving    noiselessly 
through  the  canal  as  though  impelled  by  a  single  oar  and 


VENICE.     THE  MADONNA  OF  SAN  GIORGIO. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OK 


VENICE  297 

when  the  voices  from  the  barge  joined  in  some  sweet 
chorus  a  silence  fell  on  all  the  audience.  The  moon  had 
risen  above  the  tops  of  the  buildings  and  silvered  the 
palaces  whose  balconies  were  full  of  onlookers.  The 
gondolas  carried  only  a  point  of  light  on  the  prow,  a  tiny 
obscure  lantern.  The  people  sat  low  in  them,  leaning 
back  upon  the  cushions,  and  as  one  glanced  across  the 
ranks  of  dusky  shapes  that  filled  the  canal  from  side  to 
side,  the  gondoliers  standing  erect  at  the  sterns  in  their 
white  costumes,  looked  like  statues  rising  at  intervals  from 
an  undulating  black  floor.  Occasionally  there  were  solos 
and  then  the  procession  stopped,  that  not  even  the 
rippling  of  the  water  should  interrupt.  It  was  Venice, 
it  was  full  moon ;  only  one  thing  more  could  be  desired 
to  complete  perfection,  and  that  a  lover.  But  if,  alas! 
one  cannot  have  a  lover  oneself  one  can  sometimes 
Watch  a  pair  near  by,  as  we  did  two  happy  beings  occupy- 
ing the  gondola  beside  us.  Oblivious  of  all  the  world 
besides,  they  made  a  solitude  of  their  surroundings  and 
melted  into  kisses  and  caresses  whenever  the  mood  over- 
powered them.  In  the  intervals  they  held  one  another's 
hands. 

During  the  longest  stop  the  gondoliers  had  lashed 
their  boats  together.  Ours  being  lashed  on  both  sides 
appeared  quite  secure,  but  a  gondolier  just  in  front  who 
desired  our  safer  position  undertook  to  quietly  slip  his 
steel-capped  stern  between  us  and  the  next  gondola. 
Not  so,  however.  Giovanni  instantly  recognized  his 
aim.  He  fairly  launched  himself  through  the  thirty  feet 
of  distance  to  the  prow  and  giving  the  intrusive  gondola 
a  shove  which  sent  it  out  into  the  open  again,  lashed 
ours  still  more  securely,  to  the  great  amusement  of  our 
neighbors.  And  so  we  swept  triumphantly  up  the  canal 
till  the  dome  of  the  Salute  stood  before  us  and  the 
lagoon  opened  beyond,  showing  the  long  perspective  of 


298  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

the  Riva,  with  its  thousands  of  golden  lights  stretching 
out  like  a  string  of  jewels  till  they  grew  small  and  twinkled 
themselves  away  in  the  obscurity  of  Sant  'Elena. 

One  of  the  institutions  of  Venice  is  the  hooker,  or 
crab  as  he  is  sometimes  disrespectfully  called,  who  lies  in 
wait  at  every  point  where  a  gondola  would  be  in  the  least 
likely  to  touch.  With  his  hooked  stick  he  draws  the 
prow  to  shore  and  holding  it  there  offers  a  greasy  hat  for 
the  fee  of  the  disembarking  traveler.  The  thoughtless 
and  unwary  begin  by  responding  at  once  but  experience 
teaches  that  as  this  is  a  perpetually  recurring  demand, 
the  time  for  the  gratuity  is  later,  when  on  reembarking  you 
may  drop  your  soldo ,  for  no  matter  what  may  have  been 
your  liberality  as  you  stepped  out,  the  hat  is  presented  just 
as  confidently  when  you  return  five  minutes  later.  At 
first  one  is  apt  to  have  a  season  of  impatience  with  these 
old  importuners  whose  services  in  general  are  so  pre- 
posterously unnecessary,  a  good  gondolier,  excepting  on 
a  windy  day,  needing  no  assistance  to  bring  his  bark 
to  shore.  But  on  inquiry  one  finds  that  they  are  for  the 
most  part  superannuated  gondoliers,  licensed  to  follow  this 
calling,  by  which  the  city  so  thriftily  provides  a  way  for 
her  disabled  citizens  to  extort  a  living  from  the  con- 
venient tourist. 

Their  leisure  moments,  which  are  many  more  than 
their  occupied  ones,  they  sometimes  spend  in  decorating 
the  long  handle  of  their  boat-hooks  with  coins  and  medals 
more  or  less  antique.  These  are  usually  of  copper  or 
brass  and  of  little  value,  though  curious  and  interesting 
ones  often  appear  and  occasionally  those  that  are  rare 
and  valuable.  This  is  a  work  of  time  and  according  to 
the  taste  of  the  worker  the  adornment  is  sparely  or  pro- 
fusely applied  and  interspersed  with  borderings  of  small 
brass-headed  nails.  When  finished  it  may  be  used  by 
the  owner  until  sold,  but  the  intention  is  that  it  shall 


VENICE  299 

attract  the  eye  of  a  tourist  who  will  wish  to  carry  it 
away  as  a  souvenir.  The  gondoliers  are  of  course 
friendly  to  the  hookers  and  as  we  near  a  landing 
Giovanni  gives  the  summoning  call,  "  Venga,  giovane  !  " 
(Come  hither,  youth!),  which  never  fails  to  amuse  us 
afresh,  for  no  matter  what  state  of  age  or  decrepitude  a 
crab  may  have  reached  he  is  always  hailed  in  these  flat- 
tering terms.  Occasionally  a  strong  and  able-bodied 
youth  may  be  observed  following  this  occupation,  but  in 
that  case  it  is  usually  a  gondolier  suspended  from  his 
calling  for  a  time  as  a  punishment  and  meanwhile  making 
a  humbler  living  in  this  way. 

One  afternoon  our  party  of  four,  in  two  gondolas, 
touched  at  the  steps  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  to  look 
at  the  famous  Tintorettos  and  Carpaccio's  beautiful  little 
St.  George  and  the  Dragon.  The  attendant  crab  was 
more  than  usually  advanced  in  age,  gnarled,  knotted  and 
blear-eyed  to  a  surprising  degree  but  though  crooked 
and  stiff  of  joint  he  was  wonderfully  active.  He  kept 
an  anxious  eye  upon  the  gondolas  as  we  emerged  from 
the  church  when  our  visit  was  concluded.  How  was  he 
to  assist  in  pushing  them  both  off  if  they  were  ready  to 
depart  simultaneously?  The  spirit  of  mischief  tempted 
us  to  tease  him;  we  glanced  at  Giovanni  who  was 
instantaneous  in  the  comprehension  and  furtherance  of  a 
joke,  and  while  our  old  crab  was  in  the  act  of  shoving 
off  the  other  gondola  we  slipped  away.  But  was  our 
victim  baffled  ?  Not  he !  Distractedly  hobbling  to  the 
point  nearest  our  prow  he  stretched  forth  his  long  boat- 
hook  and  gently  but  firmly  pulling  us  to  shore  again, 
declared  that  he  could  not  forego  our  contribution.  The 
signore,  he  croaked,  could  have  no  wish  to  defraud  a  poor 
man  of  his  just  due,  and  such  was  his  destitution  that 
that  soldo  was  important  to  him.  We  of  course  suc- 
cumbed, internally  delighted,  and  Giovanni  looked  on 


300  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

grinning  his  enjoyment.  As  soon  as  we  were  well  out  of 
hearing  Giovanni  informed  us  that  this  particular  crab, 
far  from  being  an  object  of  charity,  was  a  person  of 
property,  a  capitalist  in  fact,  with  funds  to  the  amount 
of  no  less  than  eight  thousand  lire  well  invested.  Upon 
this  our  admiration,  if  shifted,  was  not  lessened,  for  how 
could  we  help  applauding  the  energy  that  burned  in  this 
venerable,  but  active  old  person,  still  undismayed  by  age 
or  disability  in  the  race  for  wealth? 

TORCELLO. 

"  Short  sail  from  Venice  sad  Torcello  lies, 
Deserted  island,  low  and  still  and  green. 
Before  fair  Venice  was  a  bride  and  queen 
Torcello*  s  court  was  held  in  fairer  guise 
Than  Doges  knew.     To-day  death-vapors  rise 
From  fields  where  once  her  palaces  were  seen 
And  in  her  silent  towers  that  crumbling  lean 
Unterrified  the  brooding  swallow  flies." 

—  H.  H.     Torcello. 

The  trip  to  Torcello,  the  cradle  of  Venice,  is  long 
enough  to  devote  an  afternoon  to,  and  Giovanni  accord- 
ing to  arrangements  made  beforehand,  appeared  accom- 
panied by  an  assistant  made  necessary  by  the  distance  to 
be  rowed.  The  low-lying  jsland  that  was  the  first  refuge 
of  those  ruined  and  terror-stricken  fugitives  who  stayed 
their  flying  feet  where  only  seabirds  had  before  taken 
shelter  is  some  seven  miles  nearer  the  mainland  than  the 
city  whose  greatness  they  founded.  The  day  was  as 
though  made  for  this  especial  pilgrimage — not  cloud- 
less, for  that  would  have  been  less  perfect,  but  full  of 
magical  mirage  effects  that  made  fairyland  of  the  scattered 
islets  and  channels.  To  cross  the  laguna  mortay  as  it  is 
called,  is  not  so  simple  a  matter  as  it  at  first  appears,  for 
below  the  fair  expanse  of  blue  which  seems  to  cover  un- 


VENICE  301 

known  depths  the  sandy  bottom  often  lies  too  close  to 
the  surface  to  allow  passage  for  even  the  flat-bottomed 
gondolas.  It  is  for  this  that  certain  old  piles  in  groups 
or  wandering  singly  and  apparently  aimlessly  off  into 
the  perspective  raise  their  noses  above  the  ripples.  They 
show  the  highways  across  the  watery  waste  and  with  a 
knowledge  of  times  and  tides  give  help  to  the  boatmen. 

Upon  these  highways  of  an  afternoon  one  has  de- 
lightful encounters  with  fruit-boats.  Nothing  in  fairyland 
can  be  as  picturesque  to  the  eye  as  craft  like  these — no 
such  pomp  of  color  can  flaunt  itself  elsewhere.  Up- 
reared  against  the  melting  tones  of  sky  and  water  is  the 
sail,  of  gold  or  rich  Pompeian  red,  or  oftener  a  combina- 
tion of  tints.  Piled  up  below  lie  great  heaps  of  yellow 
and  green-bronze  squashes,  well-favored  melons,  white 
and  purple  grapes;  but  prettiest  of  all  are  the  peaches, 
which  are  brought  in  in  round  open  baskets,  within  which 
they  are  packed  to  form  a  perfect  pyramid  running  up 
to  as  sharp  a  point  as  may  be  formed  by  a  single  peach. 
To  do  this  they  are  bound  here  and  there  with  interlaced 
cords  of  twisted  grass,  slender  enough  to  be  unnotice- 
able.  There  they  lie,  their  fervid  glowing  cheeks  pressed 
close  together  and  forming  little  mountain  peaks  of  am- 
brosial sweetness  and  mellowness. 

On  we  journeyed,  past  the  square  uncompromising 
walls  of  the  damp  cemetery  that  yields  but  an  uneasy 
rest  for  its  dead,  who  hold  short  leases  in  their  over- 
populated  dwelling-place,  cutting  through  the  island  of 
Murano  by  way  of  its  main  canal,  and  skimming  the 
shore  of  Burano  where  the  fisher-folk  are  so  noted  for 
their  beauty.  Ever  as  we  advanced  the  tall  campanile  of 
the  ancient  church  of  Torcello,  which  first  showed  itself 
to  us  as  a  pillar  of  cloud  on  the  horizon,  turned  slowly 
to  substantial  stone  and  united  itself  more  firmly  to  the 
earth.  Its  low  foundation  is  barely  above  water  level 


3oz  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

and  with  the  little  hamlet,  a  mere  handful  of  scattered 
houses,  has  to  be  dyked  about  to  keep  the  high  tides  out. 
It  lies  at  this  season  in  a  very  nest  of  sweet-smelling  hay, 
hedged  in  with  grape-vines,  and  the  hay  being  just  now 
mowed  and  raked  into  cocks,  fragrant  incense  rises  up 
about  you  as  you  thread  your  way  through  winding 
waterways  to  the  landing. 

Touching  and  beautiful  the  old  church  ever  remains, 
and  the  fragments  of  carved  marble  that  one  may  still 
study  in  its  cool  moist  interior  never  lose  their  charm. 
In  the  end  my  affections  always  centre  themselves  upon 
a  certain  peacock  who,  with  his  traditional  vanity  subdued 
in  these  sacred  precincts  to  a  sober  self-conscious  stiffness, 
elongates  his  neck  somewhat  painfully  in  order  conscien- 
tiously to  fill  a  space.  I  regret  to  say  that  I  know  of  no 
such  tormenting  young  beggars  as  the  children  of  Tor- 
cello,  who  do  all  that  lies  within  them  to  destroy  the  hap- 
piness of  any  visitor  to  their  island.  Their  persistent 
assaults  and  pertinacious  clinging  are  proof  against  all 
discouragement  or  even  threatening.  To  be  rid  of  them 
for  a  time  we  walked  some  distance  away  from  the  village, 
following  the  canal  till  we  came  out  upon  the  margin  of 
the  island,  and  here  we  sat  for  a  while  enjoying  the  still- 
ness and  the  washing  of  the  limpid  water  against  the 
weedy  shore. 

A  miniature  wharf  large  enough  for  a  skiff  to  touch 
at  ended  the  narrow  footpath  here,  and  across  the  water 
from  Burano  a  boat  was  approaching  in  which  sat  three 
young  girls  in  holiday  gowns,  rowed  by  a  middle-aged 
boatman.  When  they  had  reached  the  landing  they 
skipped  out  of  the  boat  and  then  handed  their  fare  to 
the  rower,  who  in  surprise  remonstrated  with  them  for 
underpaying  him.  Their  guilty  giggles  'and  frivolous 
rejoinders  showed  conclusively  that  they  had  cheated  the 
poor  fellow,  and  his  patience  when  the  temptation  to 


VENICE  303 

wrath  was  great  quite  touched  us.  In  the  end  he  could 
get  nothing  more  out  of  them  and  they  hurried  away 
laughing,  leaving  him  gazing  ruefully  at  the  copper  in 
his  hand  and  mopping  his  wet  forehead. 

"  That  is  not  quite  fair/*  said  I,  from  the  other  side 
of  the  landing. 

"  It  is  little  indeed,  Signora,  this  hot  day,"  said  he, 
shaking  his  head. 

"  You  must  have  a  little  more  to  take  home  with 
you,"  said  I,  dropping  something  additional  into  his 
palm.  The  kindly  fellow's  face  brightened  with  surprise 
and  gratification,  and  his  acknowledgments  magnified  a 
small  donation  into  the  largess  one  is  sure  to  wish  in  such 
circumstances  one  had  made  it.  He  light-heartedly 
clambered  into  his  boat  again  and,  waving  us  a  friendly 
farewell,  rowed  away  to  the  opposite  island. 

The  naughty  children  of  Torcello  defeated  their 
own  ends  by  driving  us  to  sup  elsewhere  than  upon  their 
shores  and  thus  lost  the  remains  of  our  feast  which  they 
might  otherwise  have  enjoyed.  Floating  away  we  sought 
a  solitary  little  islet  of  the  lagoon  where  certain  sombre 
pines  and  cypresses  cut  a  dark  silhouette  against  the  sky, 
and  entering  the  bit  of  canal  that  runs  into  the  land, 
stepped  off  upon  broad  stone  steps  and  walked  across 
the  silent  greensward  to  the  low  cloister  and  chapel  of 
Saint  Francis  of  the  Desert.  Over  the  door  was  writ- 

"  O  beata  solitudo, 
O  sola  beatitudo." 

Let  no  one  nursing  a  grief,  unless  indeed  it  has  reached 
the  stage  of  gentle  melancholy,  repair  to  this  shrine  of 
exile  from  the  world,  for  there  is  that  about  its  loneliness 
that  constricts  the  heart,  that  quickens  the  sting  of  regret, 
that  makes  poignant  the  sorrow  that  was  beginning  to 
slumber. 


304  WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 

A  gentle  brown-gowned  brother  came  to  show  us 
what  was  permitted  of  his  retreat  and  appeared  a  sort  of 
incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  the  place,  pallid,  pensive,  with 
eyes  whose  abstracted  gaze  seemed  to  have  rested  always 
upon  the  solemn  reaches  of  the  lagoons.  But  he  was 
courteous  and  hospitable  to  us  in  so  far  as  he  might  be 
to  creatures  so  alien,  though  he  would  not  allow  us  to 
leave  any  offering  behind,  not  even  when  we  urged  it 
upon  him  for  his  monastery.  He  readily  consented  to 
our  taking  tea  upon  the  shore  of  the  island,  however,  and 
with  a  vague,  indulgent  smile  and  a  patient  inclination  of 
the  head,  quietly  closed  the  gate  behind  us. 

A  sense  of  forlornness  somehow  fell  upon  us,  a  feel- 
ing of  pity  and  commiseration  that  no  doubt  he  knew  no 
need  of,  and  after  a  while  remembering  this,  we  brushed 
it  away  and  a  little  more  soberly  than  usual  began  to 
spread  out  our  feast  upon  the  great  blocks  of  stone  that 
strengthened  the  low  edge  of  the  land  and  formed  a  con- 
venient table.  Here  with  our  backs  turned  upon 
asceticism,  conviviality  almost  returned  to  us,  though  to 
laugh  aloud  would  have  seemed  too  rude  a  disturbance 
of  the  solitariness  of  the  spot.  Indeed  in  the  end  there 
was  a  shadow  upon  our  gayety  that  would  not  quite  lift. 
Festinat  supremay  as  our  Franciscan  brother  might  have 
said ;  the  last  hour  was  upon  us.  On  the  morrow  we 
must  take  our  leave  of  Venice  and  the  ache  of  this 
thought  would  make  itself  felt. 

We  rose  slowly  and  stood  awhile  letting  our  eyes 
wander  to  the  far  level  horizon.  On  every  side  was  still- 
ness and  peace.  The  water  whispered  intermittently  as 
it  rippled  against  the  low  shore  and  immeasurable  calm 
folded  its  wings  above  us.  All  the  fever  and  pettiness 
of  every-day  life  withdrew  into  infinite  remoteness. 
Selfish  strivings,  ignoble  aims  shrank  away.  Here  with 
Saint  Francis  was  the  true  repose,  here  the  surrender 


VENICE  305 

that  should  bring  unbroken  rest.  Must  we  leave  it  and 
return  to  earth? 

In  the  gathering  darkness  we  entered  the  gondola 
again,  passing  back  through  strange  channels  and  skirting 
other  islands  where  mysterious  hedges  or  forbidding  walls 
shut  out  all  view  of  what  was  within.  Now  and  then 
there  were  furtive  little  landing-places  leading  to  closed 
doors  or  impenetrable  gates,  and  illusive  odors  stole  out 
to  us,  but  never  a  sound  wandered  forth  to  break  the 
silent  enchantment  in  which  all  lay  bound.  It  was  as 
though  secrets  great  with  meaning  trembled  on  the  waves 
of  ether  that  lapped  us  about  but  yet  held  them  inviolate. 
The  rock  of  the  gondola  softly  gliding  past  became 
rhythmic  and  the  supreme  beauty  of  the  star-strewn 
sky  above  held  speech  in  check.  At  last  we  slipped 
through  an  opening  in  the  straight  line  of  stone  that 
Venice  presents  to  the  laguna  morta  and  began  to 
make  our  ghostly  way  through  some  of  the  dark  and 
vacant  back  canals. 

Presently,  with  one  of  those  abrupt  contrasts  ever 
lying  in  wait  for  one  in  Venice,  we  suddenly  came  out 
upon  a  scene  of  merry-making.  It  was  the  saint's  day 
of  the  quarter,  and  all  the  world  had  come  together  to 
celebrate  it.  In  the  radiance  of  little  red  lanterns  which 
brought  everything  into  brilliant  relief  it  was  a  joyous 
occasion  indeed.  The  canal  along  the  fondamenta  was  a 
bower  of  temporary  arches  hung  with  twinkling  lights, 
banners  were  festooned  from  the  windows,  little  booths 
had  been  erected  below  in  the  small  piazza,  and  a  buzz- 
ing murmuring  crowd  moved  to  and  fro  everywhere. 
Steam  rose  from  large  kettles  in  which  bubbled  and 
sizzled  those  mysterious  frying  morsels  so  dear  to  the 
palate  of  Italians,  for  although  their  gayety  is  singularly 
free  from  any  grossness  in  the  way  of  eating  and  drink- 
ing, no  such  meeting  seems  to  be  complete  without  the 


3o6 


WAYFARERS    IN    ITALY 


odor  of  boiling   fat.      Jollity   was   everywhere  but   no 
rudeness,  not  a  trace  of  boisterousness  or  vulgarity. 

We  disembarked  to  mingle  with  the  good-natured 
crowd  who  treated  us  as  quite  of  themselves.  In  the 
booths  there  was  little  to  tempt  a  purchaser  and  indeed 
they  appeared  to  be  more  a  customary  and  ornamental 
adjunct  to  the  celebration  than  the  occasion  of  much 
traffic,  if  one  might  judge  by  the  sales  made.  But  what 
of  that?  The  merchants  were  there  to  enjoy  themselves 
like  the  rest  of  the  world,  not  to  worry  over  the  uncer- 
tainties of  commerce.  Content  sat  upon  the  counte- 
nances of  all.  Nowhere  is  the  duty  of  happiness  better 
observed  than  in  Venice.  Beautiful,  friendly,  enthralling 
spot,  who  would  ever  willingly  leave  it!  Surely  not  we 
and  when  at  last  we  turned  from  the  joyous  company 
we  carried  away  in  our  hearts  the  refrain  of  the  song 
whose  strains  followed  us: — 

"O  Venezia  benedetta!  non  ti  voglio  piu  lasciar." 


SPERIAMO 


ONE  HUNDRED  COPIES  OF  THIS  BOOK  HAVE 
BEEN  PUBLISHED  BY  D.  P.  ELDER  AND  MORGAN 
SHEPARD  AT  SAN  FRANCISCO  IN  THE  YEAR 
MCMI,  AND  PRINTED  FOR  THEM  AT  THE 
PRESS  OF  THE  STANLEY -TAYLOR  COMPANY. 


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